


Adrift

by visiblemarket



Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Praise Kink, Reference to Suicidal Ideation, and then later plot with vague porn, hellblazer comic references, hellblazer-lite level gore, not enough i thought to push it to the graphic depictions of violence level but idk, porn with vague plot, where the it i'm fixing is cancellation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 08:30:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12317424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: He pushes off the car and leans into Chas’s space. “Oh, you’re right about that, mate. Selfish fucking prick, I am.”"I know,”Chas says, sharp.John juts his chin up, looks Chas right in the eye. “What’re you gonna do about it, then?”(Magic is really very simple: all you've got to do is want something, and then let yourself have it.)





	1. Chapter 1

Chas opens on the first knock, and doesn’t immediately slam the door in John’s face. It’s promising — better luck than John’s had, lately — so he tries to smile.

Chas frowns. “How’d you find me?”

“Renee."

Chas’s eyebrows go up at that, and then he sighs. Backs away from the door. John takes it as a sign to follow.

Chas doesn’t look at him again, just walks through the house like he’s forgotten John is there, or like he wishes he had. John trails him through a wood-paneled hall and into — of course — a tidy kitchen. Room enough for a refrigerator, a sink, a stove, and little else.

How Chas is managing without his blessed counter space, John can’t imagine.

Chas turns to look at him, and John resists the urge to step back. Chas raises his eyebrows again, as if expecting something. An apology, most likely, but that’s hardly what John’s here for, so instead, he babbles.

“Looked you up in Brooklyn. Figured you would’ve…after everything, y'know. Figured you would’ve gone back.” Chas shakes his head — doesn’t seem about to elaborate — and turns away again. John keeps talking, desperate to fill the void. “Renee’s worried about you; said you hadn’t called in a while."

Chas winces at that. It’s small but John spots it, and could, _should_ push."Was in London, me,” he says, instead. “Just for a bit. Then up home. Cheryl says hello."

“How’s she…” Chas’s voice cracks like the spine of an old book. He clears his throat. “How’s she doing?"

As well as she ever is, really, but: “Good,” he says, bright as he can. “Gettin’ on, you know. Gemma’s almost fifteen, can you believe it?”

“Yeah,” Chas says, shoulders tightening. “Yeah, I know."

It’s been just as long since they’d met, John realizes — Cheryl’d been newly pregnant when he’d left home, and he’d run into Chas in London not long after.

“Right,” he says, suddenly at a loss. “Well. Went down to Georgia first, but—"

“You thought we’d stick around waiting for you,” says Chas, mild, but John can hear the angry tremor beneath, almost feels the temperature drop between them.

He opts to move on.

“Looked Liv up, too."

“Liv?” Chas says, gives a surprised — and surprisingly fond — chuckle, as he turns to face John again. “She all right?"

John shrugs. “Well enough,” he says. Better than she would’ve been had she stuck around, that’s for bloody certain. “Gave her the keys to the mill house. Hers by right, I suppose."

Chas has nothing to say to that — turns away again, filling a glass of water from the sink.

"Went down to Louisiana, after,” John adds, eventually. "Zed won’t see me."

“Can you blame her?"

He doesn’t. “Thought she was the forgiving sort,” he says.

Chas chuckles to himself — less fond this time, significantly so — and glances at John over his shoulder. “Like I am?” John shrugs, dropping his gaze. Chas sighs. “You planning on spending the night?"

“Anywhere else I can go?”

 _To hell_ , says Chas’s expression, but Chas’s mouth offers a terse, “In town or in general?” as he turns away.

“What do you think?"

Chas rubs the back of his own neck, and shakes his head. “You can take the couch."  

*

Time was, Chas would’ve offered John the bed to make sure he rested, then crammed himself atop the sagging, scratchy, ancient cushions instead. That time has clearly passed. John tries not to let it bother him, but he’s had a hard enough time sleeping lately, and as soft and warm as the blanket Chas tossed him the night before was, it hadn’t much helped.

And so he awakens to birds chirping, sun streaming through big airy windows, and a colossal headache.

He staggers to the kitchen. There’s a mug out, hot water in the electric kettle — the one from the mill house, John realizes — and an old tea tin. None of which had been out the night before; it’d be almost an insult, not to make use of them, after Chas’s gone to the trouble.

John's seconds from taking his first sip when he hears a sound — a dull, heavy thud, coming from outside. There’s a door leading out from the kitchen, and deeply unimpressive porch beyond. John steps out, and spots Chas, swinging an ax and chopping through another cord of wood. Thick arms straining in his grey shirt, dark hair wavy. He raises his arm to wipe beads of sweat off his forehead. Shuts his eyes. Throws his head back, inhaling a long, deep breath of fresh, crisp air.

John takes a steadying gulp of — as it turns out — scalding hot tea.

“Oh,” says Chas, spotting him or, more likely, hearing the strangled sputtering sound. “Hey. Good morning?"

“Morning,” John chokes. Chas gives him a strange look — he must still be staring, but somehow can’t bring himself to stop. He pretends to be entranced with the ax and the pile of wood, nods toward them. “Where’d you learn that?"

“Kinda just figured it out.” Chas shrugs. “It’s not hard."

“Speak for yourself, mate.”

“What?"

“Nothing.” John takes a slower, smarter sip from his tea. “You do this every morning?"

“Temperature’s supposed to drop tonight. Wanted to have some on hand. No central heating in the house."

Once, he'd have offered to keep Chas warm himself — teasingly, or not, full of curiosity as to whether Chas would take him up on it. They’d shared a bed a few times, under similar circumstances: no heat, no money for a double room, always some excuse or another. Hadn't meant anything then, didn’t have to mean anything now, and yet.

“Right,” says John, rolling the r in his nervousness, and salutes Chas with his mug before going back inside. 

*

Chas is out for a while; chopping enough wood to last through the winter, John has to presume, given how long it’s taking.

John takes it upon himself to poke around the kitchen, building the pretense that he isn’t waiting for Chas to come back inside. Discovers, to some surprise, that the refrigerator is almost entirely empty, except for a few beers, a bag of store-bought bread, and a carton of milk that’s past the expiry date and smells like it. In a sudden fit of helpful pique, John decides to pour it out into the sink, runs the faucet for a bit to flush away the sour smell.

The back door creaks open, and Chas steps inside: John can’t help but inhale, taking in the scent of sweat and trees that comes with him. Can’t help but stare, at the solid, unconscious masculinity he projects. It's been a while, John thinks hazily, resisting the urge to lick his lips.

“You’re out of milk,” he says.

“Out of a lot of things,” Chas says, very quickly — _like patience_ , he seems to want to add, but forebears. He sighs, runs a nervous hand through his dark hair — John’s palms itch with the sudden need to do it for him.

“Haven’t been to the store in awhile,” Chas concedes, leaves the implication that he might as well do so soon dangling. John wonders if he should offer to come along; Chas’d always been asking him to, before, and he’d usually refused, always had something better to do.

“Right,” John says again, and drops his gaze. “I—"

“Got something for you,” says Chas, gruff, and turns before John can so much as ask. Just follows him, away from the room where’d he’d spent the night, and into what must’ve once been a dining room. A dusty wooden table remains, taking up much of the space, and spread out, across and around it, creeping onto the four matching chairs, are tidy and distinct piles of books, boxes, and oddly shaped objects.

“Didn’t want to leave them in the house. In case it got robbed, or something."

John chuckles to himself. “That house can take care of itself, mate. ’s the robbers you should’ve worried about." Chas shrugs, and John shakes his head, still laughing, as he looks over the assemblage.

“These are mine,” he says, after a moment, because they are: books and charts and the odd bits and bobs, almost twenty years worth of haphazard collection of magical artifacts. Organized, it must be said, with a great deal more care than John ever gave. “Gonna have yourself an auction, were you?” he jokes.

“Figured you might want them back eventually,” says Chas, calm and disinterested. John glances at him — his fingers are tapping nervously against the table, and his gaze is on the floor. John ducks his head, automatically hiding a smile.

Which is how he notices what Chas is apparently hoping he won’t: the occasional garish yellow and blue bits of paper sticking out from the pages of more than one book.

“You’ve been reading them,” he says, without judgment but with a fair bit of curiosity — Chas never gave a damn about magic before, never showed the slightest bit of interest in what it could do outside of emergencies. It’s what’d intrigued John most when they’d first met — how unimpressed he’d been by John’s usual tricks, when he hadn't seemed almost frightened by them.

“Gets boring out here,” is the only answer Chas seems willing to give, and John nods.

“You learn anything?"

“Tried a…” his fingers give an annoyed, embarrassed swirl in the air. “To keep out evil spirits,” he says, and gives John a pointed look. _Didn’t work_ , he might as well have said.

John has to laugh. Ducks his head again. “Could teach you a thing or two. If you’re…” he rolls his shoulders, reaches for a cigarette. “If you’re still interested."

He expects Chas to say no, at the very least. At very most, he expects Chas to simply, politely, show him the door, or perhaps more likely, chuck him out on his arse.

“We’ll see,” Chas says, and walks away.

*

Chas doesn’t ask him where he’s been or why he left, and, in exchange, John hesitates to question why Chas’s living in the middle of nowhere, barely subsisting — per the contents of the bin John's hazarded a glance at — on copious amounts of beer and little else.

The mystery of how he’s affording to do so is solved fairly quickly: he’s working as a mechanic in town, keeping proper work hours for the first time since John’s met him. Leaves around eight in the morning and comes back after five, smelling of sweat and motor oil. Takes a long shower, one that fills the small house with steam and that clean, faintly woodsy scent of his soap. Comes out looking flushed and weary, dark hair combed back, green eyes heavy. Too tired to say much to John, or even acknowledge him.

John’s more than satisfied with the arrangement: it gives him plenty of time to smoke, drink, rest, and poke through Chas's belongings.

Chas’s got a working television, at least, and a well-used laptop. He’s also got a tidy little bedroom on the second floor of the house, beneath the steepled roof. Wood beams peek above the bed, which is made up with the same dark, soft flannel sheets he’d used in the mill house. He has a book on the nightstand — something trashy and normal, a mystery novel, the type you’d buy at an airport — and a lamp. John wonders at the bed; whether it’s soft or hard, whether Chas has brought anyone back to it yet.

There’s a suitcase full of John’s clothes — whatever excuses Chas had for keeping those, he’s yet to share them with John.

There’s a single bathroom in the house, on the first floor: just a shower, sink, and toilet, and a single medicine cabinet hanging from the wall. Four days in, John opens the door to it, and blinks.

*

Chas’s late getting back. Appears, eventually, with several brown bags full of groceries in tow.

John’s still investigating the bathroom when it happens, and by the time he steps out, Chas has set the bags out along the small round table in the kitchen and is in the process of putting everything away.

"Could've helped you with those," he says, weakly. Chas gives him a long, unamused look that speaks to past experience on the subject, most of which boils down to, _Could have? Yeah. Would have? No chance_.

John knows it’s not something to smile about, but it’s easier to duck his head to hide it than to stop himself.

“What’d you get?”

“The basics.” This could mean anything, coming from Chas. John smirks at the thought, and Chas catches him at it, turning away from an opened cupboard and rolling his eyes. He huffs, and shoves a bag into John’s arms. “Here,” he says. “Make yourself useful."

He could refuse. Almost wants to, just to see what’ll happen. He puts the bag down instead, rolls his sleeves, and gets to work. 

*

“Did you mean it?” Chas says, that afternoon. Chas has made entirely mundane grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. A simple meal by Chas’s standards; John suspects it’s meant as a punishment, somehow, but it's the first home cooked meal he's had in months — almost a year — and he has no complaints.

“Mean what?” John says, around his latest bite of sandwich. Chas gives him a look of disappointed disgust — more than is merited for the mouth full of food, John thinks; Chas has, after all, seen him do far worse — but goes on.

“About the — about teaching me…” he gives the same embarrassed, slow swirl of his long, thick fingers as he had before.

John feels himself flush. “Oh,” he says, swallowing — he’d meant it in a general, conciliatory sense, an excuse to stick around, at the very least a peace offering. He’d never actually expected Chas to take him up on it. “‘course. If you’d like."

*

He gets the feeling, fairly quickly, that Chas would not like. That Chas is, in fact, miserable about the prospect of learning, much less _using_ , magic.

There’s no clearer indication of this than the fact that he’s thoroughly, determinately, almost intentionally, _bad_ at it.

They start with fire, on John's assumption that it’ll be easy to tell if it’s worked — or if, more likely, it goes wrong — and that it’s dangerous enough that Chas’ll be paying proper attention and focus on not fucking it up.

Focus, as it turns out, is not what Chas lacks.

“I did everything right!” says Chas, with a level of righteous indignation that’s vanishingly rare, from him.

“That’s your problem, mate,” John says, stroking his fingers along Chas’s palm. “You think this’s like—bakin’ a bloody cake, or somethin'. Magic doesn't work like that. It’s not a recipe — can’t just put together all the pieces, yeah? Got to go into it with intention, and even then it usually won’t work the way you want it to."

“Then what’s the _point_?"

“Buggered if I know,” John says, though the truth is, of course: the power that comes with cheating the universe, the intoxicating high of sending the cosmic deck flying. Chaos from order, a sharpened blade against the soft skin of reality. Also, to be honest? It’s usually a bit of a laugh.

Chas is frowning at him. “I don’t like this,” he says.

John watches the shiny new burns on Chas’s palm shimmer, then disappear. “I know,” he says, and impulsively squeezes Chas’s wrist. “You don’t have to."

Chas looks up at him — green eyes sharp, expression guarded. John drops his grip on Chas’s wrist, then drops his gaze to the book in front of him. “I just meant—"

“You like it enough for both of us,” Chas says, dry and loaded.

John looks up at him. The _us_ practically rings in his ears — he knows better than to mention it, than to assume it means anything, but he feels a sudden, hopeful itch in the palms of his own hands.

He snaps his fingers. A flame sparks to life in his hand, painting his fingers with a flickering orange glow.

“Show off,” Chas says, but there’s a smile in his voice.

John smirks. The flame sputters and swells, flaring in his hand — he lets it burn for a moment too long, then twists his wrists, extinguishing it within his fist.

*

They give up on the magic lessons.

Chas starts making breakfast.

Not for him, not exactly. But enough for two and John is there and he’ll eat what’s left, more often than not while Chas’s still in the kitchen. Not like there’s a lot of places for him to go, to be fair, especially while Chas washes the dishes, as he always does, right after every meal.

A routine is established, and quickly congeals: the shared breakfast, the washing of dishes, the quick nod Chas gives as he leaves, driving into town to do whatever it is he does.

The house feels almost dead without him, and John — finds a strange sort of peace in it. Being left alone. Nowhere to go. No amends to make. No duplicitous angels telling him he’s wasting his admittedly limited talents. No one to save — he’s done with that, never been any good at it to begin with, never wanted it really.

There’s not much to do in the house but there’s enough: he reads, he tinkers, he rests. Flips on the television, on occasion, usually to find that the world’s going to hell as always. He considers drinking: there’s beer in the refrigerator, at least, which isn’t his preference lately — has gotten used to needing something stronger — but he’s always been one to make do.

He exists, without expectation or direction, which is a strange, unfamiliar blessing of late.

And then Chas will return. John is happy to see him, and is surprised to find the feeling seems to be mutual: Chas doesn’t precisely smile but he frowns less, stays in the same room as John for hours at a time. He’ll sit with him sometimes, drinking a beer, and make dinner for them both. They’ll eat together, usually in silence.

It’s pleasant, in a way John’d forgotten the company of other people could be.

He has no complaints.

*

Another week passes.

“You going to town?” he says, as if Chas is ever not.

Chas nods wordlessly, rinsing off a frying pan.

“Mind giving me a lift?"

Chas stills. His shoulders straighten. “You going somewhere?"

“To town,” John says, a little sharper than is smart: he knows it instantly, spots the wary glance Chas throws in his direction. “Need some air,” he offers quickly, as an explanation. “A change of scenery, like."

Chas gives a sharp nod. Turns off the faucet. Dries off his hands. Every motion deliberate and calculated — stalling, for some reason — and then he turns.

“Here,” he says, pulling the car keys from his pocket, and putting them down on the table in front of John. “Don’t crash."

And then he’s gone, out of the kitchen and — within seconds — up the stairs and to his room.

John sits at the table, staring that keys, wondering what the hell just happened, for a long while.

 

*

He doesn’t crash.

He nearly doesn’t _go_ — he’s no real interest in driving Chas’s new car, a solid, black sedan, nor in going into town alone. But he’s not about to go up to Chas’s room and tell him that, and so he goes.

The nearest town — such as it is — is miles away. John’d been there once before: taken a train in from Manhattan, made his way out via the kindness of strangers headed in Chas’s direction. It’s barely more than a main street, with a couple of shops, a movie theater, and a library. A couple of houses and a school beyond; a town square, and a truly unnecessary amount of trees.

John’s bored before he even parks the car. But he’s out and might as well make use of the day: a place as quiet as this is practically guaranteed to have a seedy, seething underbelly of crime or corruption or supernatural rot, and that’s always worth a look.

Casual investigation finds nothing quite so interesting: there’s a fall festival coming up, apparently, and the market is low on organic eggs. That’s the sort of thing that counts as headline news, to Chas — John’ll have to report back.

There’s a liquor store, which is a lot more interesting. John has little money but a lot of gall, and a significant amount of residual glamour. He walks out with two bottles of whiskey under his arm, and a six pack of the shite Chas’s been drinking.

He drives back. Makes it to the house without getting lost, and manages to juggle his many bottles while unlocking the front door without more than one close call. Christ, his father’d be so _very_ proud.

Chas is on the couch. Doesn’t look particularly pleased to see him — more surprised than anything, to be honest — but tips his beer in John’s direction when John walks by with the brown bags from the liquor store.

John leaves the bottles on the kitchen table. Fetches some ice from the freezer. Pours himself what seems like a perfectly reasonable amount of whiskey, given the year he’s had. He expects Chas to roll his eyes at it, of course — it’s part of the charm of drinking with Chas, his silent, exasperated concern.

“Mind if I join you?” he says, as he returns to the living room. Chas gives him a quick, almost bored once over, and then shrugs.

“It’s a free country."

“Not what I’ve heard,” John says, flopping down beside him; far away enough to be able to look at him, much too far to touch. He reaches out anyway, dipping his glass toward Chas — Chas sighs, and clinks his bottle against it. “Cheers,” he says, and Chas gives a tired nod.

They drink in silence — they’ve done so before, not recently, but it’s routine and ingrained. John finds himself relaxing: partly from the proximity, partly from the warm alcoholic burn trickling through his veins.

“How many d’you have left, mate?” he asks.

“What?"

John gives him a look. _You heard me_ , it says. Chas sighs. “Twenty-two."

About where John’d left him, give or take two. Unless Chas is lying, though he'd have no reason to, yet. John takes another gulp of whisky, and pulls the plastic box from his pocket. Sets it, gingerly, on the table, about equidistant from him and Chas.

Chas glances over. “Is there something you wanna ask me, John?"

“There somethin’ you want to say?"

Chas laughs — to himself, low, dark — and picks up the box of razor blades. Holds them, for a moment, as if weighing them in his palm, then tosses the box back down with calculated disdain.

“Wouldn’t have done it,” Chas says, simply, and takes a long sip of his beer. “Wouldn’t waste—I mean— it wouldn’t work, anyway,” in the tone of someone who’s thought about it, but hasn’t tried. "Just…"

John looks at him. He’s hazy, and drunker than John had guessed. “Just what?"

Chas chuckles to himself, not meeting John’s eyes. “What difference would it make?” John opens his mouth to speak and is quickly waved into silence. “I couldn’t — Zed and me, we couldn’t — do much, just the two of us. Tried, after you left. But without…” he trails off, shrugs. "And Zed deserved a life, after what happened. Renee’s moved on. Geraldine’s better off without me…confusing things. Who’d…who would—"

“I’d miss you."

“You were gone."

“I’m back."

Chas scoffs.

“For now,” he says, not even a question, and it stings.

 _For as long as you’d like_ , John would say, if he were cruel and a liar — and he is cruel, he does lie, but Chas knows he is, and wouldn’t believe him if he did, so there’s no real use to it.

“I did miss you,” he says instead, reaching out, taking Chas’s face into his hands. “When I was gone. I _did_ miss you."

Chas looks up at him — unfocused, disinterested. Without affection, without emotion — without recognition, even. Which is why it’s strange — at least one reason why it’s strange — that he then grabs at John’s shirt, tangles his fingers in it, and drags John down into a kiss.

And what a kiss — angry, desperate, tasting too much of beer. Chas seems determined to somehow suck the breath right out of him. His broad hands claw at John’s chest and waist, and John wavers between staying upright and letting himself be dragged onto Chas’s lap.

He can tell what Chas’d prefer — feels drawn there, feels tempted to throw his arms around the back of Chas’s neck, give in to the gravitational pull of his body. The longer he kisses Chas the harder it is to resist.

“Is this...” he pants, shuddering with desire to close the distance again, to press up against Chas’s chest and get lost in him. “Is this what you want?"

Chas blinks. Takes a breath. Looks at John for a moment too long, as if he truly needs to think about it. “I don’t know."

Just what you want to hear, when you’re about to have it off with someone. John pulls back.

“John…” Chas says, reaching for him, confused.

“Sleep it off,” John says, gently as he can. Remembers all the times Chas’d said that to him, and almost laughs at the irony.

Doesn’t, though. Flees to the porch in silence, and stays there, smoking, till he hears the creak of the couch springs and Chas’s footsteps stumbling up the stairs.

They don’t talk about it in the morning.  

*

It’s different, after that.

He’d already known what Chas smelled like, what his warmth felt like pressed up against him: Chas’d always been friendly, physical, willing to get close and stay there.

But now John knows what the inside of his mouth tastes like. He knows how Chas’s hands feel around his hips. He knows how strong he is, in a visceral, personal way.

The knowledge weighs on him. He thinks about it too much, in such close quarters. Every simple action by Chas triggers a complex, heady swirl of speculation and desire. Chas’s fingers curl around a knife and John’s gut twists, wondering what it’d be like to have those fingers around his cock. Chas passes him from behind — there’s not much room to do otherwise — and John has to stop himself from leaning back, pressing into him. Chas meets his eye, for what feels like the first time in years, and John blushes instantly, like a besotted schoolboy.

And, like a besotted schoolboy, John needs a release.

The prospect of skulking into to town to pick someone up and then having to explain it to Chas is daunting; a long shower or two is easier. Not even that much longer, a few quick, rough strokes of his cock, just the pure sensation of it. No fantasies, no conjecture — just basic stimulation and a quick orgasm, and then he can move on.

It’s enough. It works. Chas’s just Chas again — solid, simple Chas. Chas, who hates him, but won’t throw him out. Partly out of duty — an old debt, never quite repaid — but partly out of...loneliness, John supposes. More than John needs, really, but he’ll take it.

And then Chas begins to warm to him again. A hand on John’s shoulder when he comes home; a quick friendly ruffle of John’s hair when he leaves in the morning. Proximity — casual, comfortable — between them, Chas more and more willing to sit beside John on the couch at night, just for a moment, while he drinks a beer and John flips on the television and doesn’t bother watching it.

One night John falls asleep — suddenly, or so he thinks, because when he wakes it’s to the warmth and steadiness of Chas’s shoulder under his cheek.

He swallows once, and then again. Pulls back slowly, reaching up to wipe at his mouth; Christ, it’d be just his luck to have drooled on him. Chas’ll put up with a lot, in John’s experience — has certainly had much worse on his shirt, thanks to John — but they’re still on shaky ground.

“Hey,” Chas says, soft.

John looks up at him, tries to match his tenderness. “Hey,” he manages — sounds more tired than anything, but it makes Chas smile.

Chas opens his mouth as if to speak, but changes his mind, shakes his head. Reaches out. John keeps very, very still even as his heart quickens. Chas’s scent, a heady mix of rosemary from dinner, the wool of his sweater, his shampoo and deodorant and the beer on his breath, is everywhere. One of Chas’s hands slides around the back of his neck; the other cups John’s cheek. John swallows, hard, and Chas leans in.

He presses a quick, dry peck to John’s forehead. Squeezes the back of his neck for a moment, then pulls away.

“Get some sleep,” he says, as if that’s bloody likely now, and stands. He’s at the staircase before he stops, glances over his shoulder. “Good night, John."

John exhales. Inhales, quick, just enough air to squeak out a quick, “‘night, mate”, and then collapses, flopping down onto the couch and listening to Chas make his way up the stairs.

Squeezes his eyes shut.

Tries to force himself to sleep.

It doesn’t work.

 

*

“What are you— what are you _doing_?"

“What’s it _look_ like?” John groans, curling onto his side, burying his head into a pillow. Squeezes his eyes shut. “Bloody _hell_ , mate. Either give us a hand or fuck off, yeah?”

Chas doesn’t move. John sighs, and gives his cock a quick, glancing tug, and another.

Falls into a rhythm — fast, not too tight, twist at the end.

Chas still hasn’t moved. John can hear his breaths, or maybe his own — maybe both, too loud to be just one person.

Footsteps — approaching, not retreating. John turns his head. Chas is close, Chas is kneeling, by the side of the couch. Chas is reaching out, cupping John’s cheek with a broad, warm hand.

“What —“ John manages, and the rest is caught in a swift, deep kiss.

“Don’t stop on my account,” says Chas, and John has to laugh. Chas kisses him again, eases him onto his back. John has to moan, jerking into his own palm, tightening his grip, speeding up his strokes. Reaches out, runs his fingers through Chas’s hair. Chas tenses, for a moment, but allows it, sucks on John’s tongue, rubs his thumb along the bottom of John’s jaw.

Pulls back, just enough to change the angle, but John whines at it anyway — petulant, involuntary. Chas flushes, and laughs, chuckling to himself as he leans in, nuzzles John’s nose with his own. “I like that,” he rumbles, close enough that John feels the words against his lips, that John’s cock twitches desperately against his own palm. “Like the sounds you make."

 _Christ_ , John wants to say, but can’t, can’t say anything, do anything, but moan into Chas’s mouth; spread his legs, fucking his own fist; dig his heels into the couch, arching his back; and come.

All over his hand, all over his stomach. He falls back, boneless. Chas pulls away — smiling, stroking John’s cheek. “Stay put,” he says, and stands.

 _Where would I go?_ John thinks — he’s sated, punch drunk, exhausted. Barely knows where Chas’s going, but thinks — hopes, expects — that it’s to get a condom, that he’ll fuck him now, when he’s all loose and hazy. He can picture it — Chas working his way inside him, deep, steady thrusts of his long, thick cock.

Chas returns with a damp, warm dishtowel. John shouldn’t be surprised.

“Good boy,” Chas says, kneeling beside him again, and kisses John’s forehead.

John nearly comes again.   

*


	2. Chapter 2

Chas won’t look at him the next morning.

John isn’t surprised, but it’s disappointing nonetheless — he’d drifted off the night before with Chas pressing soft, quick kisses to the side of his face and along his throat, but woken up alone, hastily covered by a thick blanket.

And now Chas is in the kitchen, making breakfast, entirely silent and incredibly reluctant to turn around or acknowledge John’s existence. He’s had far worse mornings after, but he somehow expected different from Chas. Or maybe he just expected to be the one who went cold and distant after, and resents Chas for getting there first.

Chas puts a plate down in front of him: fried eggs and sausage, toast on the side. John reaches out, curling his fingers around the ends of Chas’s shirt. Chas stills.

“Mate…” John starts, and peers up at him. Chas blinks at him, already frowning. “‘bout last night, I don’t—"

“We don’t—"

“Just. Doesn’t have to mean anythin’,” John says, letting go.

Chas pulls away. After a moment, he sits down. “It doesn’t, huh?” he says, avoiding John’s eyes.

“If you don’t—“ he starts, and shakes his head. “If you don't want it to, I mean."

Chas glances over: he seems uncertain and wary, but determined to power through what he’s about to say. “What do you…” he swallows, makes a strange, aborted gesture. “What do you want?"

 _Want you to bend me over this table and fuck me till I can’t see straight_ , John doesn’t say. But he can’t quite say anything else — merely shrugs, and drops his gaze.

Starts in on his breakfast. Chas, eventually, rises to retrieve his own plate.

They eat together in silence. John glances over at him, subtle as he can; Chas is looking at him when he does, smiling a little, which is a surprise. John finishes, and watches Chas’s plate carefully, out of the corner of his eye.

“You done?” he says, eventually, and Chas gives a surprised nod. John stacks his plate on top of Chas’s and carries them both to the sink, grumbling to himself at Chas’s entirely shocked expression — like he’s never washed a bloody dish before, for fuck’s sake.

It’s been a while, certainly — he’d been living on cheap takeaway lately — but he’s not entirely useless in the kitchen. Can cook for himself and everything. Can scrub up a frying pan and two bloody plates, no problem. It’s as good a distraction as any — maybe that’s why Chas’s always doing it, he realizes.

An incredibly good distraction, actually, because it takes him all together too long to notice that Chas has risen from the table. That Chas is behind him, closer than expected.

He’s been behind John before — doesn’t mean anything until it does, John thinks. But this time it does: he’s two steps away, one step away, and then none. Leans, front pressed to John’s back, chin hooked over John’s shoulder. He breathes — deep, steady breaths — and John’s own catch.

His hands wrap around John’s hips, and John leans back against him. Feels the strain of Chas’s cock against the small of his back, and exhales.

“Okay?” Chas says, pressing a kiss to John’s shoulder.

John nods, fervently, and Chas chuckles. John’s not particularly fond of being laughed at, but the spark of anger is soothed, extinguished utterly, by the sharp swell of desire as Chas licks at the side of his neck.

Chas’s fingers drag across his hips. Unbuckle his belt. Slide into his trousers. Wrap around his cock.

“ _Oh_ ,” John gasps — like a blushing maiden, like an utter prat, but Chas smiles into the side of John’s neck, and gives him a squeeze. His other hand slides up under John’s shirt, strokes heavily at John’s chest.

John braces himself against the counter: head falling forward, arse thrusting back, as Chas jacks him off and rubs at his nipples.

It’s simple — tight, steady strokes from rough hands — but Chas smells so bloody good and _feels_ so bloody good, warm and intractably solid behind him, erection tight against John’s back. John wants to come and Chas’s making it easy.

“That’s it,” Chas says, rubbing his bearded cheek against John’s as John squirms and thrusts into his hand. “That’s it,” again, as Chas runs his thumb over the slit, milking the precome out of him, smearing it over the head. “You’re so good,” Chas murmurs, low and calm, as John’s already shallow breaths get even sharper, as he tightens his grip on the counter and the edges bite into his palm.

“Come on,” Chas coaxes — barely a command, almost a taunt — and come on John does: into Chas’s hand, onto the cabinet doors. His knees buckle, and Chas catches him, keeps him up. An arm steady around John’s waist, a mouth pressed to the side of John’s neck. “Good boy,” he whispers, and John wants nothing more than to fall to his knees and suck him off right then and there.

He doesn’t.

Keeps still, as Chas wipes his hand off on his own dark jeans, then sets about tucking John back in. Zips up John’s trousers, buckles his belt. Presses a kiss between John’s shoulder blades, and then retreats.

John wrenches himself around, sagging against the counter. Chas doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Can I…?”

“I’m good,” says Chas. He’s not: John can see the bulge of his erection, had felt it rub against his back, his arse. Beyond that, he’s flushed, embarrassed — ashamed of himself, at what he’s done. John feels a strange stir of guilt.

“Chas—“

“I’m late, I have to…I have to go,” he says, and then, without further discussion, he does: out of the kitchen, down the hall, and out the front door.

John blinks. Inhales. Lets himself slide down against the wooden cabinet door, till he’s sitting on the kitchen floor. _Fuck_ , he thinks, without any particular vitriol or direction.

Lights a cigarette. Looks around. There’s come drying on the cabinet door beside him — Chas’ll be livid about that when he comes back, if he does at all.

Or maybe not. Maybe, John thinks, taking a long, steadying drag, maybe he doesn’t know Chas nearly as well as he thinks he does.  

 

*

Chas comes back about the same time as usual.

John is, by design, in the dining room, busily making notes he’s unlikely to ever consult. He’d started the minute he heard Chas’s car pull up, then shoved a pair of headphones on and bent over, doing his best to appear too deep in thought to be disturbed. He ignores the sound of Chas approaching. Keeps his head down, even as Chas eases into his peripheral vision, leaning thoughtlessly on the door frame as he watches John pretend to read.

After a moment, he retreats.

John waits for a few minutes more, then straightens. Takes off his headphones; hadn’t been listening to anything anyway, but can now hear the sound of Chas moving about the kitchen, humming to himself — something old, familiar, flickering on the edge of John’s memory.

John finds himself humming along, in grating, off-key harmony.

Considers stopping himself.

Doesn’t. 

*

They eat dinner in silence.

It’s roast chicken and mashed potatoes, fragrant gravy Chas has made by hand, because of course he has. Some grilled vegetables he’s piled on John’s plate, with a long, significant look. John rolls his eyes but tucks in, finishing before Chas does. He gets up, leaving his plate on the table like a stroppy child, and heads outside, taking one of Chas’s beers with him as he goes.

There’s three wide steps leading from the porch to the small yard beyond; John sits on the second, and drinks, listening to dishes rattle and water run.

The cold condensation of the bottle soothes the welts on his palms: the inevitable consequence of his death grip on the kitchen counter that morning.

He hears the faucet turn off, the footsteps approaching, the screen door swinging open.

Chas approaches slowly, as if trying not to startle a dangerous animal. John doesn’t acknowledge him, not even as he eases himself down next to John.

“Hey,” Chas says.

John shrugs. Takes another sip of his beer, rolls the bottle between his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, can see Chas watching him, can tell the moment Chas notices the angry red skin on his palms.

“Is that from…” Chas winces. John puts the bottle down and takes mercy on him.

“Doesn’t hurt,” he says, because it barely does — just when he holds onto things too tightly, which has never been his problem.

Chas reaches out and takes John’s hands in his own. Lowers his head to kiss each of John’s palms, hair fluttering forward as he does. Dry, soft lips pressed to the corner of each welt, and then to his wrists: first the right, then the left.

An unneeded, unwanted apology — John pulls his hands way, uses them to reach over and grab at the collar of Chas’s shirt. Pulls him in, and Chas comes willingly, kisses back with abandon. Drops his hands to John’s hips as John curls his fingers through Chas’s hair.

Turns his head for a better angle, and Chas follows him, tongue stroking against his own, hand sliding up John’s back and running up and down along John’s spine.

John drops a hand to Chas’s thigh, runs his fingers along the inner seam of his jeans. Meets no resistance, at least not till he slides his palm further up, chancing a quick, glancing rub at his erection.

Chas’s hand grabs his wrist, and gently, firmly, pulls it away. And then he shifts, covering John’s body with his own — pressing John back against the steps, and it’s not comfortable, he’s got the edge of a step digging into his back, but he’s not about to stop him. Chas cradles John’s head in his hands, tilts his face up.

“Can I blow you?” he says, green eyes peering up through dark lashes, expression curious. As if he’s expecting a response, as if he hasn’t, with four short words, caused all of John’s cognitive functions to short circuit.

“Ah,” he manages, clearing his throat. Chas’s chewing at his lower lip, the bastard. “Can you?” he cringes, playing with the curls at the base of Chas’s neck to steady himself. “I mean…have you? Before?"

Chas smiles, a little. “I think I can figure it out,” he says, leaning up to kiss him, reaching down to unbuckle John’s belt, to push John’s legs apart so he can settle between them.

 _Fuck,_ John says, to himself this time. Moans into Chas’s mouth, which makes Chas smile. And then he pulls away, and John can think again, enough to speak, or at least, to try: “Wait—Chas—wait—“

Chas does: look up at him, cocks his head. “Do you want this?” he says, seeming nothing as much as genuinely confused.

Now that he’s put it in John’s head, of course he does. Wants nothing else, at the moment, aches for Chas’s warmth around him, on top of him. But with the cold night air on his face, he has to admit, it’s strange: strange Chas is still so bloody distant otherwise, strange he won’t let John touch him, strange he doesn’t seem to want more from him. Strange Chas won’t tell him why.

“Just…” he says, pressing his palm to Chas’s cheek — his beard is soft against John’s skin, and Chas’s eyes close, for just a moment, as he turns his head and drops a kiss to John’s wrists.

“It’s okay,” Chas says, looking up at him again. “I want to."

That’s not the point, and John knows it. A better man would try harder — would ask questions, wait to hear the answers. A better man would pull back, put a stop to this, at least till he understood _why_.

A better man — far and away, the best man John knows — has John’s cock in his mouth, has wrapped his arms around John’s thighs. Is sucking him off with more enthusiasm than skill, to be honest, but that’s more than enough for John, who’s easy and desperate and ready to burst.

And then he does, too quick, without warning — Chas is certainly not expecting it, makes an unmistakable sputtering, choking sound, and pulls back. John hears the splatter on the the wooden step, and has to laugh. “Sorry,” he says, breathless, full of bubbling mirth — he doesn’t understand why, he’s had better, and his back hurts, from where he’s been resting against a step, and Chas is looking at him like he’s unstable, but: “Sorry,” he gasps, again.

Chas rolls his eyes, and wipes a hand across his mouth. “You like that, huh?” he says, nose wrinkled with distaste.

“It grows on you,” says John, still aglow with postcoital amusement. Reaches out to rub at Chas’s arms, wills him to get closer again, to cover him — it’s gotten colder, and without the heat of arousal, of Chas’s mouth around him, he’s starting to feel it.

Chas snorts, appearing unconvinced, but leans over him anyway. “If you say so."

John twines his arms around Chas’s neck, and reaches up to him, as much as he can. Kisses Chas, tastes himself in Chas’s mouth. His spent cock twitches with interest, and he lets out a low, pleased hum.

Chas gives a quick, surprised laugh of his own. “Really?” he says, but nuzzles their noses together again. John’s amazed to find he doesn’t mind it.

“I want you,” he says, low, breathy. “I want to…” he rubs his hands over Chas’s back. Chas, who’s gone still and tense but not moved. Not pushed him off, as John half expected him to. “Want you inside me. Please,” he says — _whines_ — as he presses quick, wet kisses across Chas’s throat. “Please, love. _Please_."

“John—“

“At least let me get you off, then."

“ _John_ ,” Chas snaps, and then groans, ducking his head.

“Yeah?” he breathes, taking Chas’s face in his hands.

Chas sighs. Long suffering, familiar, and John almost smiles. “We’ll see,” Chas says. Presses a quick kiss to John’s forehead, and withdraws.

John sits up. Tucks himself in. Lights a cigarette. Smokes, in silence, as Chas’s footsteps retreat up the stairs to his bedroom, as the night falls around him, as the cold begins to seep into his bones.

Chas loves him, he realizes. In a way he's always known it — always known that’s why Renee treated him the way she did: not because he was a bad influence — though he was — but because he was there first and Chas was loyal to a fault. John could snap his fingers and Chas would jump to. Did, for years, and now...

And now look at him. Look at _them_ — alone in the wilderness, inching their way to inevitable intimacy, entirely by default. He’s known Chas for over a decade, he’s wanted him, needed him, hurt him. He’s abandoned Chas more times than he can count, and then dragged him in again. He’s let Chas get tangled up in his messes, and left Chas behind to clean them up. Let Chas go, and then been the one to come back to him.

And now, here, at the end of all things: Chas is all he's got left.

Chas must know it, too. Must know John nearly as well as John knows him — must suspect something at least, must have realized John is desperate, hollow, and untethered, more so than he used to be. Be it from pride or self-preservation, he knows better than to give John too much, to try and ground him too quickly. He’s pushing John away for fear of what'll happen if — _when_ — he lets him in.

John doesn’t blame him.

John’s more than a little afraid of it himself.   

*

The screen door creaks open.

“Come inside.” Chas sounds weary but determined, prepared for a fight but reluctant to start one.

John shakes his head, takes another drag from his cigarette. _We’ll see_ , he wants to say.

Chas sighs, and approaches him. “It’s cold."

It is, in fact, freezing, and the smoke in his lungs can only do so much — has done too much already, frankly. John shrugs anyway, doesn’t turn around.

Chas leans over, strokes carefully at John’s hair. John refuses to lean into the touch. “Come on, John. Come inside,” he drops his hand to John’s shoulder, and gives him a squeeze. A moment passes, then: “Come upstairs.”

John glances back up at him. Chas gives a quick, nervous nod, and then pulls back.

 _You sure?_ John wants to say — knows he should say — but Chas is gone before he can, back inside. Up the stairs, and John is still thinking.

John takes another drag from his cigarette — the smoke curls in his lungs, that warm, familiar burn. He exhales. Stubs the cigarette out. Rises, slow — his back cracks when he does, and he winces. _Getting old_ , he thinks, which feels more like the curse it is than the blessing it should be.

Into the house again, locking the back door behind him, and then up the stairs to the bedroom.

The light is off, but he can make out Chas’s shape: he’s on his side, curled away from the empty space. Too rigid to be asleep, and John hesitates, just for a moment, before going to unbutton his shirt, unbuckle his belt, let his trousers fall to the ground.

He slips into bed, under the covers. The bed is soft, and warm, and narrow: they’re close enough that he can feel Chas’s heat, radiating across the bed. He doesn’t mind it, precisely, but can’t imagine falling asleep like this, dangling off the edge of anticipation. Considers turning toward Chas, ending the tension once and for all.

Instead he waits — listens to Chas’s breathing, tries to settle his own. Feels the bed shift; Chas, rolling over, but the seconds tick by and he stays at his end.

John rolls over. Chas is looking at him — that much he can tell — but there’s not enough light to see more, and it’s as much by luck as experience that their lips meet on the first try when John surges forward.

It takes Chas a moment to kiss him back, but once he does, he commits — opening his mouth to it, reaching out to cradle the back of John’s head, curving into John’s body. John wraps an arm around Chas’s neck to drag himself closer, and hitches his thigh over Chas’s waist. Chas tips him over onto his back, as John’d hoped he would.

Chas moves against him carefully, apparently getting used to the feeling: his palms are flat against John’s cheeks, his tongue is sliding inside John’s mouth. He tastes good and smells good and feels good: solid and warm, covering John’s body easily. It's almost comforting. But his cock is hard, rubbing at John’s hip, already leaking through his boxers.

John bends his knees, bracketing Chas’s torso between his thighs. Chas’s erection drags against his own and he lets out a long, low moan.

Chas pulls back a little — just enough to nuzzle their noses together, to take a breath, and then to kiss him again, changing his angle. John sucks happily at his tongue, and thrusts his hips, rutting against the solid, warm weight of him.

They rub up against each other —quick, arrhythmic thrusts of their hips, and Chas pulls back again.

“I don’t — uhm — I don’t have a condom.”

John stills. Neither does he. Hadn’t thought of it. And a part of him — the dangerous, desperate part — wants to tell him they don’t need one, that he’s clean, that he trusts Chas to say the same. But it’s not quite true — he’d trust Chas with his life, always has, but it’s been months since he was tested, not since the hospital, and he hasn’t precisely been a boy scout since then.

“’s all right,” he says, reaching out to run his fingers through Chas’ hair. “Like this, mate, ’s all right.”

“I know you wanted—"

“Wanted to make you come,” he says, rolling his hips. “Don’t particularly care how it happens.” He cares a little — Chas’s cock is long and thick, heavy against John’s stomach, brushing John’s erection. A good, proper fuck from him would work wonders, for both of them.

But for now — this’ll be all right. Be even better when he takes the situation in hand, as it were, and guides it along.

He reaches down, wraps his fingers around the two of them. Chas lets out a low, choked gasp, buries his face in the side of John’s neck. “That’s it,” John murmurs, resting his cheek against Chas’s temple as Chas starts to thrust into his grip, drags tortuously against John’s own erection. “Jus’ like that, love, jus’ let yourself—"

Chas comes — warm, wet spurts in John’s hand, onto his stomach. John uses it to slick his palm, gives himself a few rough, unsentimental tugs, and follows: quick and unexceptional as far as orgasms go, but he can’t complain, not with Chas still sprawled atop him, panting, mouthing at the side of John’s neck — he’s warm and solid and his beard prickles against John’s skin.

John smiles to himself, wipes his hand against the sheet. Lets out a low, satisfied hum, and Chas nuzzles closer, giving a deep, full-bodied shiver and clinging to John’s side.

“All right, mate?” John ventures, suddenly wary. Chas nods, not moving — a slight tremble runs through him, and John tries to steady his own breathing, tries to project a sense of calm satisfaction.

 _Relax_ , he knows better than to say.

 _Doesn’t have to mean anything_ , would be better —said it before, got them here anyway. Could even be true, this time.

John swallows. Keeps his mouth shut, and reaches out: runs his hands down Chas’s back, and turns his head, just enough to be able to kiss Chas's cheek.

In that moment, it feels like enough. 

*

He wakes up warm, curled up on his side — he can feel Chas’s heat but there’s a distinct lack of contact, of the steady arm that’d been draped around his chest when he fell asleep, the prickle of beard against the back of his neck.

“Hm,” he says, rolling over: Chas is looking at him with soft, worried eyes. “What?"

“I think you should go."

John forces a chuckle — drowsy, unthreatening — and reaches over. Wraps his hand around the back of Chas’s neck, plays with the silky hairs at the nape. “Why? Your wife on the way?"

Chas jerks his head away. “I’m serious.” He looks it. John sighs.

“So much for the rosy afterglow, eh?” John says, and rolls over onto his back.

“John, I’m—"

“Serious, yeah. Where’s it you want me to go, mate?"

“I don’t care.”

John glances over at him. “Liar,” he says.

Chas's face hardens. “Yeah, well. Takes one to know one."

"The very pinnacle of wit, mate,” John says, burying his head in the pillow for a bit — it’s too early for this discussion — it will _always_ be too early for this discussion — and he’ll do what he can to forestall it.

Chas pulls away — gives an offended, officious little _huff_ of frustration as he hoists himself out of bed. “Fine,” he says, and leaves the room, slamming the door on the way out.

John doesn’t think much of it.  

*

He falls back asleep for another hour or two — Chas’s bed is softer than expected, pleasantly so, and smells, unsurprisingly, of Chas. But he stumbles downstairs eventually, after hopping into his trousers and half-heartedly doing up his tie.

Chas has never been a particularly noisy presence, himself. But the sound of his absence is deafening. John can sense it instantly, the emptiness of each room around him. He walks, deliberate and slow, to the door: Chas isn’t on the porch, waiting for him, or in the yard, chopping wood. The car is gone.

John steps back inside.

The kitchen is empty — no dishes in the sink, no breakfast on the stove. No water for tea. No note, not in the kitchen, by the couch, in the dining room — John’s not quite sure whether he’s been expecting one or not.

He could be in town.

He could be working.

He could be out driving, clearing his head.

There’s a myriad of possibilities, but John’s not unfamiliar with the swift kick in the gut feeling that's just hit him — it’s the one that comes with being _left_ , and for good.

John lights a cigarette.

Inhales deep, exhales slow.

And then he waits.  

*

Night falls, morning comes — John sleeps in the upstairs bedroom, wanders his way through the house. Feeds himself as well as he can. Drinks more than he should.

Another day passes, and then a third.

And then a fourth.

It’s mid-afternoon on the fifth when he finally hears the car engine. He’s upstairs, and he spends a moment — a long, stretching moment — pacing the floor, smoking fitfully, and trying to come up with what he’s about to say.

“You’re back, then,” is what he lands upon, after stalking down the stairs as loudly as he can.

Chas shrugs, and doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Right, yeah. Obviously. Coulda told me you were goin’, mate. Was worried about you, yeah?”

He hadn’t been — had figured that wherever Chas was, he was fine, better off than John. Had mostly been worried about whether he’d come back.

“I left a note.” Chas is a bad liar, always has been. Most of the time John finds it charming, or at the very least useful. Right now it’s neither — feels more like an insult than anything, that he’s not even bothering to try.

Chas seems to know John doesn’t believe him, and turns away. “You could have called."

He could have. If he’d wanted to push Chas further away, he could’ve called the minute he realized Chas was gone, berated him, begged him to come back.

“Where were you?"

“Brooklyn."

Figures. John takes a drag from his cigarette. “How _was_ Renee?” Chas turns to look at him, and John smirks. “Happy t’ see you?"

Chas narrows his eyes at the implication, but opts not to engage: turns around again, starts rolling up his sleeves. “What have you been up to?"

 _Waiting around to see if you’d come back_ is a pathetic thing to say, and Chas has no way of knowing about it, so John just shrugs. “This ’n' that."

Chas huffs to himself, shaking his head, as he begins to set out a cutting board, pulls out knife.

“What’re you making?"

“Dinner,” Chas says, petulant. Draws in a long, steady breath, then exhales it — John watches his shoulders rise and fall, stifles the urge to run his palm across Chas’s broad back. “Rack of lamb."

John exhales. Gives a happy, satisfied hum around his cigarette. “Good to have you back, mate."

Chas sighs. “Yeah, yeah."

“No, I mean it. Was ruddy well starvin’ without you. Practically _wastin’_ away, me an’ my beans on toast.”

Chas chuckles at that, shakes his head again.

John could, _should_ leave well enough alone, but: “Don’t know how Renee manages. At the very _bloody_ least she’s got to be missin’ the food."

Chas huffs again — it’s different this time, not the quick, exasperated fondness for John he couldn’t quite keep in. “Never seemed to make up for it. But I guess I was always too obsessed with you to put the work in elsewhere."

It’s clear he’s quoting someone, and John has a dark coiling suspicion as to who.

“Who told you that?"

“You did,” Chas says, cutting through some carrots. “Before you left. That I couldn’t make my marriage work ‘cause I was too in love with you. That I was a pathetic, always following you around, not even worth a fuck, ‘cause I was so desperate for it. That it was a wonder anyone put up with me —"

“I didn’t…” he swallows, takes a drag from his cigarette. “Don’t remember that."

“You were very drunk,” Chas says, matter of fact — cold, and unconcerned.

John doesn't doubt it. He’d needed to be. “I didn’t mean it. Chas?” he says, grabbing at the ends of Chas’s shirt, practically begging Chas to look at him. “Didn’t mean any of it, all right? I mean,” he says, trying to laugh. “Obviously, yeah?”

Chas pulls away from him gently, and puts the knife down. “Get some butter out of the fridge for me, okay?" 

*

They eat dinner.

Chas is — distant. One word answers aren’t unusual from him, even when he’s in a good mood, but John’s barely getting a nod at even the simplest of questions.

John's ruined this, clearly, and in record time. The fact of it is not surprising but the speed is disappointing — he’d at least have liked to spend more than one night in Chas’s bed, to have sucked him off, to have at least one real proper fuck under his belt before getting tossed out on his arse, as Chas’d reason to do from the start.

Not that he seems particularly inclined to do it now — perhaps the plan is to run John off with silence and spite alone. John’s lived through worse, and if it came down to that, he could probably talk Chas around. It’d be more than a bit of a blow to his ego, to be sure, but he’d do it.

He glances up to see Chas looking at him — unreadable again, green eyes calm.

John drops his gaze, and finishes his dinner without looking up again.  

*

John retreats almost immediately, back to the side room, picks nervously at a strange puzzle box and does his best to look busy as he listens to Chas washing dishes in the kitchen.

“John?"

John jerks his head up, and then resists the urge to drop his gaze and pretend he’s done nothing of the sort. Chas is at the door: shoulders slumped, exhausted expression, none of which portends an immediate desire to throw John out tonight. “Mm?” he says, playing it off as a casual inquiry and not a desperate sort of hope.

“I’m going to bed. Don’t…” he blinks, and swallows. “Don’t come up too late,” Chas says, tapping the palm of his hand on the door frame, staring dedicatedly at the table in front of him.

John nods too quickly, ignores the swift swell of relief flooding his chest. 

*

He gives it about fifteen minutes after he hears Chas go up the stairs.

Brushes his teeth in the meantime, more to have something to do than anything. Takes off his tie, his boots, his socks, his trousers. Unbuttons his shirt, peels it off.

Clambers up the stairs with nothing but his boxers. It’s dark, as before — and Chas is curled up away from the empty space again, doing his best to feign sleep. John slides in next to him, as carefully as he can — it’s good enough for now, sharing a bed. Doesn’t need to be more than that. He’d tell Chas so, if either of them were particularly inclined to speak.

He shuts his eyes instead, and curls up on his side.

Not more than five minutes pass, and then the bed shifts.

A hand finds its way to his hip — stays there, fingers digging into John’s skin, thumb rubbing thoughtlessly at John’s back. That’s as far as it goes, at first, and then: a kiss, light and dry, to the back of John’s neck.

“Oh, so we’re in a better mood, then,” John smirks, because he’s a bloody idiot.

Chas tenses. The grip on John’s hip weakens, then disappears. John panics, turns toward him — reaches out, cups Chas’s cheek in his hand. “I want you. All right?” _is that what you need, is that what you want from me._

It must not be, because Chas just flushes and drops his gaze.

“Mate,” John tries softening his tone, curls his hand around the back of Chas’s neck. “I—"

Chas sighs, and looks up.

"Stop talking," he says, and John is glad to. Partly because Chas has reached over and kissed him, mostly because he hadn't anything else to say.

It's a good kiss: deep and thorough, and it goes on so long John's chest feels close to bursting. The burning, desperate ache in his lungs stirs an unpleasant memory, but he surges forward anyway, wrapping his arm around the back of Chas's neck, pulling himself tighter into Chas's space.

Chas's big, broad hand returns to John's hip, then slides down, cupping John’s arse. He’s not gentle about it — John moans into his mouth, nearly swooning.

"Okay?" Chas mumbles between kisses and bumped noses as he turns his head, and John almost wants to laugh.

Instead, he pulls back, sucking in as much air as he can — his lungs ache with it. “Christ,” he says, pressing his forehead to Chas's. To his own ears, he sounds breathless, and softer than he had when he was trying to fake it. “The things you do to me, Chas Chandler."

Chas huffs a laugh — it’s a strange, uncomfortable sound, for all that he blushes with it, for all that his hand is still round John’s arse. “Haven’t done much to you yet,” he mutters.

John curls closer to him, holding tight — feels like he’ll turn to dust and blow away, if he doesn't. Kisses him, swift and wet. “You drive me bloody mad."

“It’s mutual,” says Chas. John suspects he means it as something of a joke, or a dig, more like: his mouth twitches and he gets that _tone_ , the one he has when he thinks he’s being particularly clever and pulling one over on John. But his eyes are serious, and when he kisses John it’s soft and sad, not like he regrets it precisely but like he maybe thinks he should.

John shuts his eyes, opens his mouth, and kisses him back.

*

Chas fucks him — slow and shallow at first, tucked up behind him as they lie side by side, then rough and fast, rolling John onto his stomach and then hauling him up on his knees and elbows. Wraps his arm across John’s sternum: forearm stretched along John’s collarbone, hand curled around John’s left shoulder. He mouths distractedly at John’s neck — _good_ , he murmurs, as the prickly friction of his beard against John’s skin makes him squirm. _You’re so good, John, I_ — he chokes, moans into John’s shoulder, and doesn’t speak again.

The rhythm is steady and rapid and John buries his face in the mattress to try and stifle the low, desperate sounds he can’t stop making. Chas holds him steady, broad hand dropping to span John’s waist, pull John back unto his cock. Slides one palm up along John’s spine, slow and warm, almost a caress, and then drives into him again, so deep John gasps. Another thrust and he’s gone, come splattering across the sheets, knees buckling as he pitches forward. Chas hauls him up again, arm steady across John’s chest, hand wrapping around John’s shoulder again.

“Okay?” he murmurs, _again_ , nuzzling at the nape of John’s neck. John clenches around him almost vindictively — doesn’t need to be coddled, doesn’t want to get used to it — and to both of their surprise, Chas comes, with a low, wounded gasp, almost as if he’s been stabbed. Collapses on top of John, pinning him down against the mattress, panting roughly into his ear.

There’s no hard — _hah_ — feelings, after: Chas pulls out slow, rubs fondly at John’s hip as he withdraws, and rises. To clean up, John presumes, though he’s too sore and spent to bother lifting his head or opening his eyes.

He remains as he is, sprawled on his stomach with his legs spread, his eyes shut and his chin resting on his crossed arms. Chas laughs when he returns — warm, fond, unsurprised — and rolls him over, carefully.

John expects that. Expects, further, to be rolled over onto his side, so Chas can slide in behind him, take him in his arms, and pull him back against his chest. Expects it, accepts it, in a way even wants it.

To John’s surprise, Chas leaves him on his back, spread out on rapidly cooling sheets, and then lies down practically on top of him, settling his head upon John’s chest. It’s pleasant — Chas is warm and heavy, like a slightly sweaty blanket, and smells rather wonderfully of sex and exertion, with delicate hints of pine-scented soap.

John runs his hand through Chas’s hair — it’s thick and dark, taking on that slight wave it gets when it’s wet. “Like your hair,” he says, because he does and there’s no reason not to.

“Yeah,” Chas says, chuckling. “I’ve noticed."

“Oh, you have, have you?” John teases. “Anythin’ else?"

The tips of Chas’s ears pink, and John can feel the heat of his cheek as Chas rubs his face against John’s chest. The friction from Chas’s beard sending delicate trills of sensation deep within John.

“Glad you…glad you came back, mate,” John says. That’s also true, though there’s plenty of reasons not to say so.

Chas exhales, a long, deep breath. “So am I." 

*

“Huh,” Chas says, voice sleep-logged and rough. John pushes back against him, presses his arse into the cradle of Chas’s hips. Chas isn’t hard, but he laughs, tightens his grip around John’s waist.

“What?” John mumbles, ready to fall back asleep if this isn’t likely to go anywhere.

“You’re still here,” he says. Sounds surprised about it, as if John had anywhere else to go.

John snorts.

“‘m not the one who bolts at the mere suggestion of deviant sexuality.” He’ll bolt for a number of equally ridiculous reasons, admittedly, but never that.

“That wasn’t—it’s not—” Chas groans, a frustrated, annoyed, familiar sound. “That wasn’t _why_."

“Why what?” John says, all innocence — would flutter his eyelashes, if Chas could see it.

Chas sighs. “I know you."

“Biblically, ’s it were."

Chas ignores him. “I know what you’re like with — with sex. You’re either punishing yourself or running away from something, or both. I didn’t want you to…” he sighs again. “Use me, for that."

“Not usin’ you,” he says, too quickly. “And it’s not just about sex, mate."

“Oh yeah? What’s it about?"

John shrugs — he’s not about to say it, but Chas seems to know well enough. Chas takes his silence for a what it is and chuckles, soft and fond, into John’s ear.

“It’s okay,” he says, and might even mean. Kisses John’s shoulder. “I know what you’re like."

That could be the end of it. Would be, if John could ever leave well enough truly alone. But Chas is nestled up against him — nuzzling at him, holding him close. Years ago, in some vague, hazy place deep within, John might’ve wanted precisely this: to be held, loved, cared for, without condition or expectation.

He sure as hell doesn’t want it now.

He wants a cigarette. He wants to leave. He wants Chas to stop breathing against the nape of his neck and kissing his shoulder. He wants to stop enjoying it so much.

“I was dying."

Chas tenses. “What?"

John shuts his eyes. “Lung cancer. Stage four. Went back to London to see what they could do about it. Not a bloody thing, apparently."

“John—"

“Got better, though. Complete remission. ‘least that’s what the doctors tell me, but what do they know, eh?"

A moment passes. John wonders if that’ll be that. Maybe Chas won’t care. Maybe Chas will guess. Maybe Chas will be so glad he's alive that it won’t matter.

“What did you _do_?” says Chas, because John’s never been that lucky.

“You don’t want to know."

John can practically hear Chas roll his eyes, feels the grip around his waist loosen. “I don’t want to know, or you don’t want to tell me?"

John turns in Chas's arms, takes Chas's face in his hands: “ _You don’t want to know_."

Chas looks at him, long and hard — John wants to drop his gaze and pull away and go, never come back, never think about this again.

A moment passes, and then Chas sighs. “When did you find out?"

“Coupla weeks before I left."

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Didn’t want to…” what, worry them? It was never about that — never about him, or about Zed. It was about himself, about John not wanting to be seen that way. He’s no stranger to death — to fear of it, even — but the banality of the whole thing, the specter of glowing white hospital rooms and beeping machines, had been too daunting to contemplate. Zed and Chas watching him wither away into nothingness. A fate worse than death, he’d thought.

Better off out of it, the two of them. John'd thought so, then, and in a way still does. He'd been cruel and desperate and perpetually drunk, for months — and if they'd been with him, caring for him, crying for him, he might've accepted it. Might not have fought, tooth and nail, a good deal of sweat and blood, for his life, small and terrible as it is.

He wouldn't be here, now, in Chas's bed, reaching over to stroke his hair, to wrap a hand around the back of his neck. "I didn't want to," he says; it's as simple as that.

“John—"

"And I'm not sorry. For leavin’. But how I did, sayin' what I did, I…” he’s not particularly sorry for that either — hurting Chas had been the best way to keep him from following — and it’d worked, after all. But he lets himself trail off, and hopes Chas fills in the blanks the way he needs to — the way _John_ needs him to. John gives one last quick shrug, and rolls onto his side again, curls up around himself.

An arm wraps around his waist. The warmth of Chas’s chest presses tight against his back.

And, after a moment: “You’re still smoking like a damn chimney.”

John exhales. Doesn’t bother holding back a smile — Chas won’t see it, anyway. “I’m a bloody addict, mate. It’s a filthy fucking habit —"

“That nearly killed you."

That did kill him, technically, but he’s not about to bring it up. “That nearly bloody killed me, right. A filthy fucking habit that very nearly killed me, but in the end, ’s all I have left, yeah?"

Chas….laughs. A low, sleepy chuckle, slightly sad, slightly fond. Drops a kiss to the nape of John’s neck. “Yeah,” he says, and pulls John back against him. “Yeah, I know something about that." 

*

Chas makes him breakfast in the morning. Ruffles his hair. Kisses his forehead.

Lets himself be kissed on the mouth, crowded up against the counter. Almost lets himself get dragged back up to bed, but pulls away before John can seal the deal: laughs, as he gives John one last, quick peck. “I’m late,” he says, though John doubts it. “One of us has to earn a living.”

John lets him go. Takes a shower, shaves his face; goes so far as to comb his hair. 

Changes into a fresh set of clothes, and even makes the bed, upstairs, before trekking his way down to the makeshift library he’s begun to establish. A quick mind-jogging consultation, and then outside: walks the perimeter of the house, traces sigils in the dirt — somewhat lacking in artistry but it’s really about the principle of the thing. _Intention_ , as it were. Chas’s survived more than a decade in his orbit, to be sure, but now’s no time to get complacent about it.

As a final line of defense, he pricks his finger, uses his own blood to draw upon the front door lintel. Wonders, for a second, if he’ll be able to cross the threshold once he has — _ill intent_ is too bloody broad, and it’d serve him right to functionally lock himself out due to the strange protective urge that’s overtaken him. Magic does tend toward irony, after all.

But not today. John enters without issue. Smokes for a bit. Drinks one of Chas’s beers. The hazy, unmistakable buzz of magic — minor as it was, and thus far untested — doesn’t fade. He realizes, not without significant concern, that he’s — _bored_. Without Chas to fixate on, without his forgiveness to worry about, John’s suddenly aware of the strange, prickling sensation in his blood, the inescapable force tugging him back into the darkness.

 _Well_ , John thinks, lighting another cigarette. _That’s just bloody inconvenient_. 

*

Chas returns early, which John is more than willing to take as a sign. Of what, John isn’t sure, but he doesn’t need to be: Chas’s barely through the door before John is on him, throwing his arms around Chas’s neck, pulling himself up and into a kiss. Chas kisses back slowly, taking John’s face in his hands to keep him still — John pulls back with a moan, and Chas tries to follow.

John laughs — real, breathless, a surprise to himself, honestly — and bustles their noses together, which is slightly more calculated. “Take me to bed, mate,” he murmurs.

Chas goes so far as to do so literally, hoisting John up and over his shoulder, carrying him, laughing, up the stairs. Drops him onto the bed, and tumbles on after him, straddling John’s hips, kissing John’s face, wrapping his broad hand around both of John’s wrists and pinning them above John’s head. He unfastens John’s belt with the other, slides his palm down John’s pants, and jerks him off with comfortable efficiency. “Good boy,” he whispers, when John comes, and kisses his cheek.

John sucks him off, after.

Chas’s cock is thick and heavy in John’s mouth, and he smells of leather seats and motor oil. He strokes at John’s hair, gives it a gentle, experimental pull — John moans around him, wrapping his arms around Chas’s thighs, swallowing at the head of his cock.

Chas comes with a rough jerk of his hips and a sharp gasp. John swallows as much as he can before Chas drags him up, pulls John tight against his chest. He’s warm and panting and still dressed — they both are, shirts barely rucked up, trousers open but mostly in place — and he clings to John, as if he expects John to disappear if he doesn’t. John lets him, curls up against him — runs his fingers through Chas’s thick hair, and sighs.

“You look nice today,” Chas says, sudden and shy — doesn’t meet John’s eyes, just buries his face in John’s neck.

 _I feel nice_ John almost says, but catches himself just in time.

“I'm not,” he says instead, and Chas laughs.

*

The next day is more of the same — John rides him in the morning, brutal and breathless, head thrown back and eyes shut. Chas wraps his hands around John’s hips, at first to steady him, and then to drag him down, hold him still, as he thrusts up in to John’s body. He comes hard, and John follows suddenly, across Chas’s chest in thick white streaks. Chas rolls him onto his back and kisses him senseless, smearing John’s come between them, leaving a filthy, sticky mess.

Chas takes a shower. John makes toast and coffee, which they share, once Chas emerges from the bathroom. Chas kisses him goodbye — soft, swift, light fingers wrapped around the back of John’s neck — and John nips at his lower lip when they separate.

“Be good,” Chas says, and smiles at John’s entirely predictable smirk.

“Always am,” says John, and flips him off. 

*

John waits till Chas has left to seek out a pack of cigarettes and light the first of the day. The familiarity of it is welcome — warm in his lungs, soothing on his nerves. He’s filthy and sore, in desperate need of a shower, but he takes his time, smoking in the kitchen as he thinks.

The sex is all right — not particularly adventurous, none of the slightly reckless edge John prefers, but all right. Seems to be doing Chas a world of good in particular, and John’s glad of that. But they’re both just biding time before it all goes to shit — it always has, always will, John’s own bad luck and worst impulses always coming back to bite him in the arse. It’s really more a matter of how and when the end will come than if: John’ll get bored of it, Chas’ll get frustrated with him, the real world will come knocking on the door...any and all of it will shatter the strange little fantasy they’ve both let themselves fall into.

It's not the first time John's lived this particular sort of fantasy — Chas is far from the first big hearted fool to think he can _fix_ John, or take care of him, and he's unlikely to be the last.

But Chas _knows_ him — he's not just bolstering his own ego by taking in a feral soul and trying to tame it. He loves John, has for years, and that complicates things.

John inhales. Could call it off now, of course — a couple of awkward fucks fueled by loneliness and curiosity is nothing, not in the grand scheme of things. To say so, to convince Chas of it, would be the best chances of salvaging what’s left of their friendship.

John exhales. Could let it run its course instead — John’s restlessness or Chas’s expectations’ll bring it down before Chas’s put in any undue danger, and John’ll get a reliably warm bed for a few weeks, at least.

Chas’ll hate him for a while; John can accept that. Chas’s hated him before, always come around. But the consummation of years of unfulfilled potential will do him good in the long run — no more _what if_ to it, Chas’ll go back to the life he’s meant to live, the wife and child and stable home he’s always wanted, and John’ll—

John stubs out his cigarette. John’ll live. Go on living, as he has for more than three decades now, contrary to all the odds and significant disapproval from the universe.

 _I’ll be all right_ , John thinks. _Always am._

_*_


	3. Chapter 3

“Come to Brooklyn with me.”

“Whu?” John manages, still half-asleep. Chas makes a low, fond sound and runs a gentle hand through John’s hair.

“I’m thinking of driving down this weekend. Thought you could use a change of scenery. Something to do, y’know?”

John rolls over to look at him. “Somethin’ like what?”

Chas shrugs. “You’ve got friends in New York.”

The only _friend_ he’s got in New York is the one whose bed he’s sharing. Otherwise, John has acquaintances, what in another life might be called business associates — in the life he lived, they’re a motley bunch of petty con artists and casual occultists like himself, with a couple more serious practitioners who fucking loathe him and oppose his methods right up until they need him to fix their problems.

 _Friends_ , he thinks, and smirks. Chas, frustratingly, seems to find this charming enough to wrap his arm around John’s waist and curl up around him.

“Just think about it,” he says, and kisses John’s forehead.

 

*

They go to Brooklyn.

Chas spends the day with his daughter, or so John presumes. John takes the train to Murray Hill, drops in the curator of a collection of magical ephemera once owned by a rich industrialist desperate for eternal youth or some of the usual nonsense. The majority of the books are a step above common herbals — enough to get the unfortunate sods who compiled them sentenced to death at some point, not enough to grant them or anyone who came after anything as helpful as immortality.

It’s a force of habit and ingrained professional curiosity that takes him there — the curator in question’s a bit of a gossip and always good for a list of suspicious happenings about town. Not that John’s in the mood or position to deal with them, but it’ll be good to know what to avoid, what to keep Chas and his family from stumbling into.

There’s reports of a ghost at the Strand — literary inclined specters are not John’s speed, he’d’ve steered clear even if he wasn’t functionally retired — a story about some street artist whose works keeping coming to life, and rumors of some sort of coiling, tempestuous evil lurking in the city’s steamy undercarriage. _Oh, that’s just the MTA, love_ , he jokes — the curator’s not terrible amused, but Chas would’ve laughed. Will laugh, if John gets around to telling him about it.

 

*

John heads back to Brooklyn, skulks around the shops on Atlantic Avenue till Chas sees fit to come and collect him.

When he does, he’s — lighter than usual, all easy smiles and loose physicality. John’s not sure it’s a good look on him; makes him seem a bit simple, frankly, and Chas tends in that direction anyway.

“What?” Chas says, noticing John’s gaze.

“Just lookin’, mate,” John says, and then reaches over, fiddles with the hair at the nape of Chas’s neck. “Gettin’ a bit long, there.”

Chas makes a half-hearted and ultimately unsuccessful effort to swat John’s hand away while driving. “You saying I need a haircut?”

He isn't — he likes the soft, accidental disorder of it, likes running his fingers through it and musing it up. “Maybe,” John says, as though entirely uninvested.

Chas huffs. “What’d you do today?”

“Caught up with old _friends_ ,” John drawls. “You?”

“Took Geraldine Christmas shopping.” Christ, that sounds dull. John’s glad not to have had to tag along. Chas keeps going: “Told her we could maybe get breakfast tomorrow. You mind sticking around another day?”

“S’ppose I could make room in my _very_ busy schedule.”

Chas shoots him a look — that familiar, fond exasperation — as the car rolls to a stop before a traffic light. John takes his chance: leans out of his seat and kisses him, open-mouthed and desperate, and quick enough that he’s already pulling away when Chas’s hand pushes him back down into his seat.

John laughs as the car jerks forward — Chas speeding away from the drivers who’re making their displeasure known through liberal use of their horns — and keeps laughing, as Chas shoves him again. It’s clearly meant to be retaliatory but feels rather nice, actually: Chas’s warm, heavy palm splayed flat across John’s chest, pressing him tight against the back of the car seat. It does nothing to curb John’s laughter, anyway, and neither does Chas’s inevitable eyeroll.

“Jesus _Christ_ , John,” he says, then: “ _Come on_ ,” almost under his breath, but it’s too good of an opening for John to resist.

“Just did, mate,” he says, smirking, half turning in his seat. “Want me to do it again?”

Chas snorts, and shakes his head. “Just—behave yourself.”

John grins, and pulls out his cigarettes. “All right, daddy.”

 

*

They spend the night in a mid-range hotel — the sort with lifeless art on the walls and a cold breakfast spread, leather headboards and starched white sheets. Chas fucks him on said white sheets — face to face for the first time, John realizes, as Chas works his way in.

Chas is intent and intense, all half-hooded eyes and furrowed brow, parted lips and quick, panting thrusts. He’s hard and thick and throbbing inside of John, and John finds himself lightheaded and loose, lets himself lie back and bask in the feeling.

Chas glances up. Blinks, hips stuttering from the steady, relentless rhythm John loves.

John whines. “What?” he manages, thrusting up against him, trying to spur him on.

“You just — mm — ,” he grunts, grabbing at John’s waist to push him down, keep him still. “Usually don’t look at me. When I’m—when we’re…”

Chas, bless him, is balls deep in John but has suddenly gone _shy_. John swallows a smile. “You mind?” he says instead, arching his back. Chas shakes his head, but the tips of his ears pink. John reaches up to run his hands through Chas’s hair.

Chas inhales, slow and deep, and they both still.

“I like lookin’ at you,” John says, checking his impulse to squirm. Chas shakes his head again — just barely, probably subconsciously — and then leans forward, buries his face against John’s throat. John takes a breath, and then lets it out. “Like knowin’ it’s you.”

Chas makes a strangled, doubtful sound at that, but starts fucking him again, picking up where he left off: deep, slow thrusts as he mouths distractedly at John’s neck.

“No one else could fuck me like this,” John says, panting in Chas’s ear — it’s true, John’s been fucked harder and better and longer, but never quite like this: the careful strength hiding Chas’s desperation, the weight of him against John’s chest. The shape of his body, the way it moves against John’s. The scent of his soap, heady and crisp, mixed with sweat and sex. His hands, strumming up and down along John’s ribs, leaving him breathless , writhing to get closer, to get _more_ from Chas.

Every part of him feels familiar — predictable, yes, but more than that — more than anything — _safe_. Even that first time — that strange, grudging, abridged first time — John had felt it. Comfort, instead of provocation. John's never wanted that before — John's not entirely sure he wants that _now_ — but for the time being, he’ll sure as hell enjoy it.

John inhales, stroking rapidly at Chas’s back — the smooth, warm expanse of skin twitches beneath his palms as the muscles flex, as Chas’s thrusts quicken and his lips find John’s again. _No one else could have me like this_ , John finds himself thinking, is glad to have his mouth too busy to say it.

Chas comes and John is still painfully hard, remains so until Chas pulls out and slides down between John’s thighs. He takes it slow: a long, steady lick up the underside of John’s cock, a few playful nuzzles of his cheeks against John’s shaft and John’s thighs, before taking John into his mouth and bobbing his head in a sloppy, unhurried rhythm. John curses and begs and sighs, back arching as he finally comes.

Chas swallows, then pulls off. Rubs his bearded cheek against the inside of John’s thigh again. John whines, low and petulant, tries to bring his thighs together.

“No?” Chas says, looking up at him.

John closes his eyes. “Yes,” he admits.

Chas’s brow furrows, and then he chuckles. Nuzzles at the warm, oversensitized skin — the friction of it makes John squirm, but...he inhales, deep, as Chas works his way up John’s thighs. Nuzzling, nipping, sucking at John’s skin, leaving him shaking, filled with helpless, paralyzing warmth. Slides up along John’s body again, kissing his hips and stomach and chest, sucking at John’s neck.

“ _Chas_ ,” John whines, turning his head, parting his lips — hoping for a proper kiss, and he gets one. Chas cups his face, nips at John’s lower lip — slips his tongue into John’s mouth and settles gently against John’s chest. John sucks on his tongue and runs his hands over Chas’s broad shoulders, through Chas’s silky hair.

He can taste himself in Chas’s mouth. Feels — high, almost, the lightheaded buzz of before having given way to hazy weightlessness, like he’d drift away if Chas wasn’t there to hold him down.

Chas pulls back — smiles at him, and John’s too far gone to do anything but smile back.

 

*

The stone walls of the mill house seem to be actively radiating cold — they should do something about that, John thinks. Put up tapestries or something, Chas’d like that. Drap flannel from the ceiling, make him feel at home. Would help with the breeze — the icy, howling breeze that’s fluttering through the house, pushing books off of tables, upending chairs.

They should do something about that sound, too — the gnawing sound, the squelching wet sound. It’s everywhere, even Chas’s room, which is where John finds himself.

There’s white sheets on the bed.

Chas’s on the bed, as well — naked and prone, legs and arms spread. Head thrown back and mouth open, gasping for air, whimpering in ecstasy as a man — skinny, blond, ribs straining beneath pale skin as his back arches — straddles him, bends over him, face pressed to Chas’s chest. The noise gets louder, and John blinks.

Should he be...jealous? Angry? _Concerned_ , perhaps, by the cold aching hole in his chest, if nothing else?

He doubts it.

Even as the wind cuts through him — wind, for sure, more than breeze — he doubts it.

“Oi,” he says, nevertheless — pitches it loud, to be heard over the moist crunching snarls — “ _Oi!_ ”

And then it’s him — it’s always been him, he realizes, both watching and watched. The inside of his thighs are sticky-wet, rapidly cooling — his hands are coated, forearms streaked and flaking. Chas is warm beneath him, inside him — pulsing against his lips, flooding his mouth with — salt and iron and bile. The bile, John realizes, is likely his own.

He pulls back. Drags his arm over his mouth, tries to wipe off the blood. It doesn’t work.

“John,” Chas says, soft — John can’t look at him, can’t look away, can’t look at anything but Chas’s chest. Chas’s heart — what’s left of it, suggests John’s ever-generous subconscious — struggles valiantly, shudders violently. Wells up, rich and red, flooding the cracked cradle of Chas’s ribs. “John,” Chas says, again: softer this time, weakening. “ _John_.”

A hand on John’s shoulder. He tries to shake it away. _Chas_ , he tries — chokes on it. Tries to swallow, and swallow, and swallow — the taste remains, the feeling of flesh between his teeth. He gags, but tries again: _Chas_.

___Chas_._ _

__**_Chas_**._ _  

 

*

“John?”

“Sod off,” John groans, rolling over to bury his face in a pillow — the harsh light of day encroaches upon him anyway, and Chas chuckles, ruffles his hair.

“C’mon,” Chas says. “Come get breakfast.”

“With you?” John mumbles into his pillow.

“Yes,” says Chas, precisely. “With me. And with Geraldine.”

John turns to look at him, trying to gauge the importance of Chas's ostensibly casual request. “Give us a mo’,” he groans, and drags himself out of bed.

 

*

“You feeling okay?” says Chas, low and familiar.

“Why d’you ask?”

“'cause you look hungover,” says Chas, quirking an eyebrow. “And I know for a fact you're not.”

John winces. “Do you, now?” he mumbles. “Coulda snuck out when you were sleepin’.”

“Did you?” says Chas, who clearly knows he didn't.

John shrugs, then shakes his head. Sighs. Drops his gaze to the paper napkin he’s begun to shred. “Slept like shit last night.”

Glances up again. Chas looks doubtful — opens his mouth to speak, but Geraldine, bless her, returns from the bathroom just in time, and slides into the booth besides her father.

John gives her a wan smile, which she returns, quick and wary — almost as if she’s finally realized who’s responsible for keeping her father away from her the past few years — before turning toward Chas. “I’ve decided,” she says, with conviction. “I want pancakes.”

“Great choice,” says Chas, managing to sound genuinely proud and not patronizing. He makes eye contact with the waitress, who ambles over to take their order — she’s an older woman, blonde and perky, the type to call everyone _sweetheart_ and even mostly mean it. She fits the aesthetic of the place, John’ll admit — the formica counters, the cakes beneath glass cases, the pink and green walls. The pretty, curly-haired youth busing tables and pushing a broom around. The only concession to the passage of time and massive cultural shifts is the lack of ashtrays, and more’s the pity, too.

“John?”

“What?” John says, blinking into focus: Chas’s eyebrows are raised, and he, Geraldine, and the waitress are all staring at him.

“What do you want?”

Question of the bloody hour, that is.

“Nothing,” John says, and then concedes: “More coffee.”

Chas huffs. “Eggs and bacon for him. Side of toast.”

The waitress chuckles to herself, and writes it down — walks way, still laughing, as she shakes her head.

“Chas—”

“You need to eat,” Chas says, calm and steady. John rolls his eyes, and Chas ignores him. “Drink your juice.”

“Yes, d—” he blinks, catching himself. Neither of the Chandlers are paying him much mind, at least. “Yeah, all right,” he says, and drinks his juice.

 

*

He eats his breakfast, too, once it comes — quickly and without distraction, as Chas and Geraldine chatter on about school and homework and winter break. John pays very little attention and when he’s done, he rises.

Chas looks up at him, brow furrowed — John shakes his head, forces a smile. “Be right back,” he says, and heads off in what he presumes is the direction of the loo.

It’s down a hallway, at the end of which is another door, marked with a lighted emergency exit sign; a piece of paper has been taped to the door itself, block print letters declaring it for employees only.

John, of course, pushes it open.

Finds himself in a prototypical New York alley: brick walls, dented green dumpster. Slick wet pavement and rats underfoot, probably, which is why he chooses not to look down.

“You lost?”

John glances over. It’s the busboy from inside — dark haired, insouciant. Leaning artfully against the wall, smoking a cigarette with genuine ease and fundamental enjoyment.

“No, just—” John swallows. “Just needed some air.”

“Oh yeah?” says the boy. “Me too.” He inhales, deep, and watches John carefully. John steps over to him, and exhales slow.

He’s beautiful, John realizes: dark curls, hazel eyes, tan skin. Perfect plush lips, plumped to a delicate pout. A renaissance angel — vastly preferable to a real one, per John’s experience — in tight jeans, a black t-shirt, and a stained white apron. Should detract from the overall image but somehow it doesn’t — it makes him tangible, possessable.

John’s not dead and he’s not blind, and the lad’s...smirking, pushing against the wall and angling his hips closer, as he speaks: “Your daughter’s cute,” he says, lazily insincere.

“She’s not mine,” says John.

He snorts. “That’s not your husband in there?”

“Christ, no.”

“Boyfriend?” he says.

John shakes his head.

A smirk. “Partner?”

John shrugs.

“Hm,” says the boy, pushing off from the wall entirely, and adds: “You smoke?”

Oh, John thinks.

He knows this dance: it’s familiar, it’s easy, John could do it in his sleep, and possibly has.

It’d be almost too easy, really: could take a cigarette, could let their fingers brush; a moment could pass, coiling hot between them. John could taste those lush lips, and fuck that pert arse.

But then again: is this what he’s come to? Screwing a bored youth beneath the shadow of a New York City dumpster? _Christ_ , that’s sad. Not, of course, the worst thing he’s ever done, but hardly the best.

“No,” he hears himself say. It’s something of a surprise, to be honest, but not quite a disappointment. “No, not anymore.”

 

*

John slides back into his seat.

Chas looks up at him, obviously concerned. _You okay?_ says his expression.

John shakes his head, very quickly. _Fine_ , he wants to say, but knows better — Chas wouldn’t believe him, and it’s not, at the moment, worth lying about. _Later_ , he tries to imply, hard as he can: _not now_ , he looks at Geraldine, and raises his eyebrows.

Chas nods, quick. Okay. Stares at John for a long moment, though — _I’m holding you to that_ , he means — and then focuses back on his daughter, who’s flipping through pictures on her phone and explaining the significance of each.

John pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, and takes a long, steadying swig of lukewarm coffee.

 

*

Chas drives Geraldine home.

John takes the back seat. Stretches out and close his eyes, ignores the sounds of the conversation — something about winter holidays, something about Christmas dinner — going on in the front.

The car stops. John opens his eyes as the front doors shut, watches as Chas walks Geraldine up the steps to the brownstone — Renee’s already waiting, looking calculatedly casual as always: hair in a messy braid over her shoulder, dark jeans, heavy but tailored wool sweater. John can’t tell, from this distance, if Chas’s charmed by it. Can only see that they’re chatting, cordially, for longer than it’d take to exchange basic pleasantries.

John tries not to frown.

Geraldine says something, and all three of the Chandlers have a good long laugh about it. John almost rolls his eyes, but stops short: Renee has spotted him, and offers a quick, apparently friendly wave. He’s too shocked by the lack of her usual disdain for him to do anything but wave back.

Eventually, the Chandlers say their goodbyes: Chas gives his wife and daughter a long hug and a kiss on the cheek, each.

John turns around, and waits.

“Hey,” Chas says, as he finally slides into the front seat. Looks back at John, smiling a strange, cheerful smile. “Come up here.”

 _All right back here, mate_ , John says, or wants to. Instead, he finds himself complying, scrambling out of the backseat and next to Chas, who throws him that smile again — small, but bright, almost goofy — and wraps his hand around the back of John’s neck.

“Thank you,” Chas says, low and sincere.

John turns to him — _for what_ , he wants to say — but gets a quick, soft peck on the lips for his troubles instead. He’s left blinking in surprise as Chas pulls back, turns the engine on, and starts to drive.

“Right,” John says, for no reason whatsoever, and Chas glances over at him. Still smiling, though there’s a slightly concerned edge to it. John waits for him to ask, and yet again, Chas surprises him: turns his eyes back to the road, and seems to opt to leave John be.

In a way, John thinks, that might be worse.

 

*

It’s a two hour drive once they leave the city, which means it’s really a three hour drive. John holds out as long as he can before lighting a cigarette. Rolls the window down first, before being asked, for all the good that does him.

It’s cold — the wind whips through the open window — and Chas keeps throwing him _looks_. John sighs. “You mind?” he says, half at the fact that he’s nervously puffing away, cigarette trembling between his numb fingers, and half at the worried glances.

Chas is silent for a moment, keeps his eyes on the road. “If I said yes,” he says, eventually. “Would you stop?”

John inhales, slow and deep, as he thinks about it. Exhales. “Dunno,” he says. “Are you?”

Chas glances at him, and then away. Shakes his head, slow and resigned — his hair flutters at it, and John has to smile. Inhales another thick coiling cloud of smoke; savors it, the warmth of it, the taste. Exhales, just a slow, just as careful — out of the corner of his mouth, making a bit of a show of it.

After a moment, John chuckles to himself, not entirely happily. Stubs his cigarette out on the dashboard, rolls up the window, and leans back into his seat.

The road stretches out before them.

After a moment, Chas nods to himself, smiles, and turns on the radio.

 

*

They make good time: there’s less traffic than expected, and Chas _has_ always been good about finding the best routes anywhere. Even — _especially_ — in places he’s never been before. John’s always meant to bring it up — it’s curious, probably not quite natural — but if Chas isn’t about to mention it, or think on it too closely, neither is John.

It’s colder than it had been in the city: they’re further north, of course, and clouds have begun to form. They hurry inside, hoping to make it in before the storm starts. Chas first, long legs putting John at an immediate disadvantage. John trails behind, idly wondering what they would do if it snowed. Stay in, spend days fucking their way through the house? They’d run out of rooms for it too fast; end up having to talk, a guaranteed death sentence for their strange detente.

John shuts the door behind him.

Chas turns his head to look at John over his shoulder, and gives him a soft, fond smile. “You hungry?” he says. “I could—”

He could shut up, as John walks up to him, grabs the collar of his coat, and pulls him down into a kiss. Chas gives an amused hum, but kisses him back, drops his hands to John’s hips.

After a moment, John pulls back. “No,” he says, giving in to the urge to lick his lips.

“No?” pants Chas, sounding a bit surprised, but withdrawing his hands.

“No,” John says. “I’m not hungry.”

Chas chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course not,” he says. “Not for food, right?”

“Somethin’ like that,” John says.

Reaches out, and grabs him by the wrist. Chas rolls his eyes, but lets him.

Chas, in fact, is as accommodating as usual: lets himself be dragged up the stairs, pushed onto the bed. Lets John straddle him, pull his shirt off. Lets John kiss him, deep and desperate, leaning over him and pressing their bodies together. Runs his hands up and down along John’s sides, even as John sits back, for a moment, to look at him: his broad, deceptively unmarred chest, the familiar tattoo across his sternum. Chas's hands slide around John’s waist, begin unbuttoning John’s shirt.

“Chas,” he says, soft and unthinking.

Chas stops, and looks up at him. “What?”

“I…” John starts, knowing he can’t finish, and leans over him again.

They breathe together for a moment — John’s are quick and shallow, Chas’s deep and intentional. The rain’s started: John can hear the frozen droplets scattering across the roof, loud enough to draw Chas’s attention. He looks up past John, who takes the moment to duck in, and kiss him.

The hollow of his throat, his shoulder, his neck. Chas chuckles to himself and finishes unbuttoning John’s shirt. Slides his hands up under it, runs his palms up and down John’s back. Careful, soothing. John sighs into his neck and Chas press a kiss to John’s temple. “You okay?” he says, _again_ , and John wants to laugh.

“Why?”

“You’re shaking.”

He is, John realizes; he hadn’t even noticed. Wonders, vaguely, how long he’s been at it.

“It’s cold.” And it is, but he’s not — the radiated heat of Chas’s body, the friction of his hands on John’s skin, have taken care of that. “Warm me up, mate,” he says anyway. Chas, apparently unconvinced, make a low, concerned sound. But he wraps his arms around John, pulls him back down, and does his best. 

 

*

When they’re done — when John is lying, warm and sated, on Chas’s chest, listening to the steady rumble of his heart — he’s too tired to move, much less shiver. Chas runs a careful hand through John’s hair, and says: “You can…” Chas sighs. “You can talk to me, you know?”

John tilts his head, just enough to see Chas’s face: Chas cringes a little, but presses on. “If you want,” he clarifies. “You don’t...have to. But—”

“Chas?”

“Yeah?”

“I know.” He tries to smile — must do a good enough job of it, because Chas smiles back, begins to card his fingers through John’s hair again.

John settles back against his chest, and takes a breath. “Was thinkin’ we could…” he pauses, reconsidering his approach. “Was wondering if you’d mind taking me to the city again next week.”

“When?”

“Saturday’d be all right,” John says. “An old friend’s in town.”

“Yeah?” says Chas: he sounds pleased, of all things. Excited at the possibility of John being out of his hair, probably. “Anyone I know?”

John shakes his head, and presses a kiss to Chas’s chest. Chas gives a happy, pleasant sort of hum — it vibrates between them, and John closes his eyes.

“Sure,” Chas says, after a moment, and pats John’s back. “We’ll make a weekend of it. It’ll be fun.”

Fun, John thinks, is probably about the last thing he’ll have. 

 

*


	4. Chapter 4

He drops into the rickety wooden chair, crosses his legs, and grins. “How much for a nude, love?”

Zed jolts up from inspecting the supplies in front of her, and narrows her eyes. “Of you?” she says, forcing a smirk. “You couldn’t afford it.”

“Priceless, then?” John huffs, leaning back in the chair. It creaks dangerously, and John rights himself. “Could do with better supplies, yeah?”

“What are you _doing_ here?” she shoots back.

Right, then. Straight to business: “Lookin’ into some grey haired bint whose paintings keep comin’ to life in people’s homes. You heard anything about that?”

“It’s platinum,” she says, cooly. She’s right: it’s a shimmering, metallic grey, shorter than when John’d last seen her. Unnatural, intentionally ethereal. It suits her; most things do.

“And the paintings?”

She shrugs. “Art,” she says, indifference not nearly as convincing as she thinks it is. “What harm does it do?”

She seems to genuinely be wondering and John can't quite give her an answer — the ones he’s seen, bumbling into a house or three in the West Village while pretending to be a lifestyle reporter, had gone mostly unnoticed by their owners. Hung up for a bit of local color on the walls, and the fact that said colors tended to shift and stretch as the light changed wasn’t terribly concerning, especially since they’d remained contained to their canvas and not the ecru walls of overpriced lofts.

“You tried controllin’ it?”

Zed shrugs, dropping her gaze.

“You want to?” John offers, and is met with another shrug, as Zed goes back to cleaning her brushes.

“You—”

“Where’s Chas?”

John blinks, suddenly wary. “Dunno. Brooklyn, I s’ppose.”

Zed laughs to herself, and looks up at him. “Is he meeting you later?”

John sighs. Of course she knows: for all he knows she’s _seen_ them together, got stacks of sketches of the two of them, _in flagrante delicto_.

“He called me,” Zed says, and John rolls his eyes. Of bloody course he did. Probably told her everything, part of his strange, enduring compulsion to rehabilitate John’s reputation. For all the good it apparently did: Zed’s still looking at him like she wishes he’d disappear, or better yet, that he’d never existed at all. She can join the bloody club, really.

“He know you’re in town?”

Zed shakes her head. “I haven’t been for long.”

About three weeks, John’d guess: the paintings he’d seen had been bought then, at some sort of winter street fair near Union Square. John vaguely assumes the cold air had kept the pigments from moving too much at the time, and thus kept anyone from noticing they did.

“Should give him a call,” John says, though he mostly hopes she won't. “He’d like to hear from you.”

Zed turns to look at him, square in the face: “Did he like hearing from you?”

John shrugs. “Likes hearin’ from me now, anyway.”

Zed huffs, shaking her head. She seems — of all things — disappointed in him.

John takes his life in his hands and leans back again. Takes out a cigarette. “About to tell me to back off, are you?”

“Chas is an adult,” she says, maddeningly calm.

“Should bloody well hope so, love,” John has to say. “Given what we’ve been up to, should bloody well hope so.”

She rolls her eyes. “Chas knows who you are — he knows you better than you think he does.”

“I know _him_ ,” he snaps, and instantly regrets it.

Zed looks partly irritated and partly vindicated, yet somehow smug all around. “Do you? Do you know what he did when you left?”

Of course he doesn’t, not the details — they haven’t spoken about it, won’t speak about it. That’s not how they _are_. He’s not about to say so. “A bit,” he says, with a too-casual shrug.

“He kept trying to — trying to find _you_ , trying to help me. Trying to get the _map_ to work, trying to keep up with everything — got himself killed, a couple of times. Totalled the cab. Lost some people, which—” Zed winces at the memory, then shakes her head. “He didn’t take it well.”

John shouldn’t be surprised — Chas had said as much, hadn’t he? And John had been too bloody infatuated with him to pay it much mind.

“He’s all right now,” he says, much too late. Clearly defensive, and entirely unconvincing.

Zed stares at him for a long while — peeling back every layer, the excuses, the simple, petty falsehoods he tells Chas and himself, the meticulously constructed fantasy of domestic idyl. In that moment she is omniscient, cold, and judgmental, and somehow, all the more attractive for it. John wants her — has always wanted her, truth be told — but he’s struck, suddenly, by the genuine, humbling certainty that she’s beyond him. He’s nothing to offer her, and she knows it, and they’re both better off for having realized. If only it’d happened earlier, it’d have saved them both a great deal of trouble; though, of course, they likely wouldn’t be here if it had.

She looks at him like she can read his thoughts — for all he knows, by now, she can — and shakes her head. “You can’t keep doing this,” she says, not without sympathy. “To him. To yourself.”

John nods, quick and resigned. Takes a long, steady drag from his cigarette. “Yeah,” he says, exhaling. “Yeah, I know.” 

 

 

*

“John?” John doesn’t bother turning around, even when Zed rolls her eyes and shakes her head at him. She waves behind him anyway, and it takes a moment, but then: “Zed?”

“Chas!” she says, standing up: Chas reaches them, wraps his arms around her in a long, fond hug. She hugs back, patting him on the back.

They pull apart, and Chas looks down at her. “Your hair!”

She laughs, reaches up. “You like it?” she says, running her hands through it. “Need a change, you know.”

“It’s great!” Chas says, a little brittle: probably liked it more before, would never actually say so. He looks down at John, who’s been sitting still and watching the proceedings, smoking fitfully the whole time. “An old friend, huh?”

“Surprise,” John says, around his cigarette. “Happy Christmas, an’ all that.”

Chas laughs and drops his hand to John’s shoulder, gives him a fond squeeze. Looks back at Zed. “How long are you in town?”

She gives a somewhat panicked shrug. “A while,” she says, sounding uncertain — either she doesn’t know, or she doesn’t want them to.

John sighs, and stands up.

“You busy, love?” She gestures vaguely at the easel and chairs she’s set up, the supplies. John shakes his head. “Too cold for all that. Come get a drink with us. Give us all a chance to...” he tries not to sneer. “Catch up.”

Zed seems mostly unimpressed by the offer and about to refuse. John takes another drag from his cigarette. “C’mon, love. On me.”

“ _Really_?” she says, and Chas laughs. John resists the urge to roll his eyes, but nods.

“Yeah, all right,” he says. “Think I owe you as much.”

Zed snorts. “Yeah,” she says, shaking her head. “Yeah, something like that.”

 

 

*

They get a drink.

They _catch up_ — or at least, Zed and Chas do. John watches Chas bumble into the fact that Zed’s in New York alone — no Jimmy-boy in sight, not for a while, though they’d still been making a go of it when John’d tracked her down to New Orleans. John could’ve told him that — could’ve told all three of them that, that it wasn’t going to last. Not that John’s one to talk, of course, but he’s rarely wrong.

And now Chas has this look on his face, like he wants to counsel her on her romantic travails, but knows all too well that his own would render him a hypocrite if he tried. John has to laugh, and they both turn to look at him: Chas, confused and slightly disappointed; Zed, clearly unsurprised and entirely unamused. Tough crowd.

John rises, gestures that he’ll go get another round, and leaves them to it.

When he returns, they’re deep in conversation, so much so that they barely acknowledge him as he distributes the bottles and sits down. Which is why John’s surprised when Chas’s right hand comes to rest, broad and warm and chaste, on John’s left thigh.

John tries not to grin too smugly about it.

It mostly doesn’t work. 

 

 

*

They drop Zed off at her new flat — a week-to-week room in a Manhattan that’s somehow affordable to an occasional street artist; what John wouldn’t do for the effect Zed apparently has on landlords — and Chas helps her carry her supplies inside.

She comes back out with him once they’re done; John’s leaning against the car by then, trying to ignore the cold, having finished off a carton of cigarettes while he waited.

“John,” she says.

“Zed,” he returns, with a nod: as close to _good to see you, sorry I hurt you, hope to hear from you again_ as he’s going to get.

She chuckles to herself and shakes her head, but reaches out to him anyway, gives him a brief, cordial hug.

The one she gives Chas is longer, and warmer — he gets a kiss on the cheek, too, which seems fair.

“New car?” she says, when she’s done, nodding towards it.

“Yeah, well,” says Chas, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I needed a change, you know?”

She smiles at him. “I like it,” she says, and looks at John, looks at the two of them. “Good to see you,” she says, and turns around, and goes inside.

 

 

*

They both watch her go: Chas from the sidewalk, John from against the car.

“So,” John says, eventually.

Chas glances over. “So?”

“You called her.” Chas nods. “Told her about…” he waves a hand between them. Chas nods again, only slightly embarrassed.

“It just came out,” he says.

“Heard that one before,” says John, on instinct, and rolls his shoulders. “And about my…” he gestures toward his chest. Another nod from Chas, and John swallows. “Why?”

“I thought she’d be want to know.” John huffs, and Chas frowns, crosses his arms. “ _I’d_ want to know. If you crossed a damn ocean after we _slept_ together, I’d want to know why.”

“Christ, what, she thought it was her fault? That’s bloody—”

“She didn’t _know_. Okay? And I thought she should.”

John shakes his head, fervently, and desperately wishes he hadn’t run out of cigarettes. “Wasn’t like that.”

“Like what?” Chas says, walking up to him.

“Like...like we fucked, and I was on a bloody plane the mornin’ after. Wasn’t—It was weeks after, I—”

“Weeks of you being a dick. To her, to me. We didn’t—”

“Wasn’t about you! Wasn’t about _either_ of you!”

“No, of course not, it was about you. Every fucking thing is about _you_ : The Amazing John Constantine, he’s got _all_ his _shit_ to deal with, all his fucking _problems_ to fix, who the hell _cares_ who he hurts in the process? Got to take care of _himself_ first, _right_?”

He’s close: inches away from John, and really, truly angry with him. Panting a little, flushed, intimidatingly tall — looming over him in a way Chas always takes care not to do. John’s in real danger of a slap across the face, and vaguely wishes he wasn’t as turned on by it as he is.

He pushes off the car and leans into Chas’s space. “Oh, you’re right about that, mate. Selfish fucking prick, I am.”

“ _I know_ ,” Chas says, sharp.

John juts his chin up, looks Chas right in the eye. “What’re you gonna do about it, then?”

It’s too far, John realizes: Chas blinks, shakes his head, and draws back. Drops his gaze. “Get in the car,” he says, walking around to the driver’s seat.

“Chas…”

“Get in the damn car, John.”

John gets in the damn car.

 

 

*

Chas doesn’t say a word to him, not on the long drive back to Brooklyn, not when he stops off at a hole-in-the-wall place he knows — John’s heard him talk about it before, one of the better spots for takeaway in the area, apparently. Chas’s still not speaking when he returns with a heavy brown paper bag, full of something warm and fragrant, which he thrusts at John and expects him to hold onto.

John does, mostly out of shock.

More silence as Chas parks the car and stalks back to the hotel, apparently expecting John to follow along with the food. John does, mostly out of curiosity, only to find it removed from his hands once Chas notices him again.

They go up to their room.

“Chas…” John tries again, and is met with a quick headshake.

“Just—” Chas says, and closes his eyes for a moment. “Just—eat something. We can—we’ll talk about it later.”

John, who knows full well they won’t, takes this for the momentary reprieve it is. They’ll eat, they’ll pretend nothing happened, they’ll go to bed and Chas will fuck him, for want of anything better to do. Maybe a bit harder than usual, but that’ll be the end of it, for now.

John knows he shouldn’t be pleased — they’ll put off the inevitable another few weeks, at most — but Chas is peeling himself out of his coat, frowning a little, tearing open the bag and pulling out plastic plates. Bustling around in an attempt to domesticate an blandly commercial hotel room, of all things. To be fair, he’s domesticated worse.

He’s soft and tired and familiar, and John is desperately, _selfishly_ fond of him.

*

In the end, John’s wrong: they eat, they don’t talk, they fall into bed together, but Chas doesn’t touch him, at least at first.

 _Right, then_ , John thinks, curling up on his side and closing his eyes. Could be worse.

He’s almost asleep, when Chas finally comes up behind him, presses a kiss to the back of his neck, and speaks: “Sorry,” he murmurs.

“For what?” mumbles John.

“For...before. Yelling at you, I almost—”

“‘s all right,” says John, who mostly wants him to shut up about it and let him go to sleep. “Deserved it, probably.”

“Mm.” Chas kisses his neck again. “Still.”

John sighs. “You know me too well,” he says, eventually.

Chas makes a sharp, surprised sound. “What?”

“Just as I said, mate. You know me too well.”

“What does that mean?”

John shrugs. “Dunno. Guess we’ll find out."

Chas huffs at that, and John turns in his arms. Reaches out, and takes Chas’s face in his hands. “The Amazin’ Chas Chandler,” he drawls, light and teasing. Chas blushes, drops his gaze. “All those problems of his own, and it’s everyone else he worries about.”

“John—”

“Thing is, love,” John says, angling closer. “Here you are. Everything you know. Everything you’ve seen. Everything I’ve done —” _to you_ , John doesn’t say. _To myself. To everyone else_. “And here you are."

He leaves the question unasked — Chas, of course, doesn’t have the grace or mercy to leave it unanswered. “Well,” he says, rubbing distractedly at John’s shoulders, not quite meeting John’s eyes. “Maybe I don’t want to think I wasted my life on you.”

It’s not a surprise to John — he’s always suspected it was something like that. He’s all right with it — it’s a matter of pride, then, more than sentiment.

“Or maybe,” Chas, running his fingers through John’s hair. “Maybe I—"

Or maybe it’s sentiment after all. John leans in to stop him — kisses him silent, swift and determined. Chas seems to have been expecting it: opens his mouth to John, drops his hands to John’s hips.

“You’re still a selfish prick,” Chas mumbles, pushing John onto his back and covering John’s body with his own.

“I _know_ ,” John moans, and wraps his legs around Chas’s waist. 

 

 

*

“Mornin’,” John says, cheerful and loud. Chas rolls over, blinks up at him. “Sleep well?”

Chas looks at him for a moment, and then nods.

“Tired you out, eh?” John says, and settles a cup of coffee on the end table by his head. Chas rolls his eyes but sits up, reaches for it. John sits down on the bed next to him. “Any plans for the day?”

“Some,” Chas says, tasting the coffee. Wrinkles his nose at it — too sweet, probably, John’s no real idea how he takes his coffee — but takes another cautious sip all the same. “Taking Geraldine to lunch.”

“Free in the morning, then?”

Chas’s already heavy eyes narrow. “Why?” he says, charmingly wary.

John holds back a smile. “Well, mate,” he says. “Was thinkin’ I might need your help with something.”

“My help?” he says, frowning. “With what?”

“Hear there's something evil lurkin’ below the city.”

“You mean besides the MTA?” Chas says. Smiles a little, clearly proud of himself. Prouder still when John laughs.

“Could be,” John says, and then rushes through: “Was thinkin’ we could pop in, figure out what’s what, yeah? ”

Chas cocks his head, gives him a long, cautious look. There’s a question in his eyes — one he can’t quite figure out how to ask, John thinks. It’s all right: John wouldn’t have much of an answer for him, even if he could.

John shrugs, resisting the urge to drop his gaze. Chas laughs, swift and soft.

“Yeah,” he says, with a shrug of his own, and takes another sip of his coffee. “Yeah, why not.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> The first part of this was inspired by _[The Drifter](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/163082558032/what-is-the-drifter-about-is-it-just-a-normal)_ (SFW-ish link), a porn film I haven't actually seen. 
> 
> The rest of it was inspired by...me wanting to keep writing it to see where it went, honestly. 
> 
> ~~any resemblance to _mother!_ is purely coincidental i 100% wrote it before that was....a thing...oh god i hope darren aronofsky and i are not on the same wavelength for anything else again.~~


End file.
